


how way leads on to way

by petroltogo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (I Think We All Know Which Pair I'm Referring to), (Yes Even Between Robb and Elyanna), All The Lannister Family Issues, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, BAMF Harry, Be Prepared To Be Patient, Because Of The Reincarnation, Both Due To Reincarnation, Communication Is A Mythical Thing We Do Not Believe In, Diving Into The Backstory Of Magic In GoT, Don't Worry Though There Will Be Romance, Don't copy to another site, Excessive Use Of Brackets And Italics, F/M, Family Feels, Family Issues, Female Harry Potter, Gender-Issues, Identity Issues, Insightful Joffrey, It Takes A Long While Before Robb Shows Up Though, Master of Death Harry Potter, Miscommunication, Morals Are Not Needed In Westeros, More Of A Break-Things-Differently, Not A Fix-It, Not Gonna Lie It's Gonna Get Messy, Now There's Two Tags I Never Thought I'd Need, Of The Stark And Lannister Kind (Though Each Family Separately Of Course), Protective Joffrey, Protective Joffrey Should Be Its Own Warning, Reincarnation, Robb Stark is a Gift, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Incest, The Tag Isn't Just Decoration, The Usual GoT Shit, This Is Family And Friendship First Romance Second, This Is Westeros After All, Unreliable Narrator, WIP, We Save Those For The Real World, betrothals, limited pov, slowest of all slow burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2020-12-27 22:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 169,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21126113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petroltogo/pseuds/petroltogo
Summary: This world has no need for her, offers no destined paths and fated battles, for it is not hers to save. [Was never meant to be saved.] But Harry — Harry, whose father was brave enough to face Voldemort head on, whose mother was brilliant enough to outsmart him, Harry, who has Lannister blood running through her veins and magic purring under her skin —Harrywill reshape it all the same.Elyanna Baratheon is born with the breathtaking, terrifying might that is a life free of a prophecy’s shackles. Luckily, she's got twisted family drama, an ill-timed reawakening of the Magic of Old and the powder keg that calls itself the political climate of Westeros to keep her occupied.





	1. part i

_281 AC_

They do not tell her that he is dead, but she knows.

[_Not Harry! Please, not Harry! Take me instead!_]

She knows when she demands to hold him. Her son, her little boy, a tiny, wrinkled thing with black hair and flushed skin. He is perfect and empty and gone, and she clings to him. This small, beautiful child the world will never have the chance to break. Clings to him as she cries, sobs, screams, desperate and mindless with it.

They take him away and Robert holds her, not soft, never soft, but strong like their son was not meant to be, and she has never felt hatred like this, never wanted to make someone bleed like this — has never thought of flames in their infinite greed, the terror and pain of the burning, has never thought she would one day understand the Mad King so well, would want to set the world on fire and watch it _burn_—

She screams. Her throat aches, but she doesn’t stop, feels like she’s chocking on it, the grief, the loss, the _pain_.

The pain doesn’t abate and it is not until her midwife cries out that she realizes it is not just her mind — her heart — that is consumed by an agony she has been ill-prepared for. It is her body as well, blood and water dripping down her shaking legs still and she curls into herself when another wave of pain hits her, barely aware of the septon urging Robert out of the room, the calls for fresh water and _when will it end—_

[They did not expect a second child, for indeed, how could they have foreseen such a blessing?]

It takes forever and no time at all, before the sweetest sound she has ever heard fills her ears: a child’s first cry, weak and painfully shrill and so utterly alive she weeps with joy.

"A daughter, my lady," her midwife whispers, and does not protest when Cersei demands to hold her close.

Her arms are trembling with the effort to support the little head, just as dark as her brother’s and just as soft to touch, and as the child’s cries quieten and Cersei feels the soft, barely there puff of breath against her sweat-covered collarbone, she knows a love she has never felt before. So deep, so utterly all-consuming, she could drown in it and a kinder death she could not imagine.

She barely notices the king’s return to her chambers. Barely feels the heaviness, the solid shape of him at her side.

[She has no room to spare for anything but this, a treasure all her family’s gold could not have bought her, nor indeed be worthy of the miracle the Seven have granted her.]

Robert’s hand shakes as he reaches out. Brushes bloodied knuckles gently over a downy-soft cheek, with a care she has never seen him show anyone but the dead. It does not surprise her when the king opens his mouth, no question or hesitation, as he announces with gruff solemnity, "Her name is Elyanna."

[It breaks her heart, or what little is left of it for the husband she cannot bring herself to love, when all that she is and will be is consumed by this little bird in her arms. But this is not a bitterness thatwill fester tonight, for tonight they are in agreement with each other. Tonight, they have created something far better and purer than either of them could ever hope to be. And Cersei cannot, will not forgive, but, for tonight at least, she allows herself to forget.]

"Elyanna of House Baratheon, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms," Robert continues, strong and uncompromising, a truth written into stone so that it shall never be undone.

"My lord," the maester murmurs, worry aging his face beyond his years as he leads Robert away. "If I may, I urge you to wait with an official announcement for at least a fortnight. I fear the young princess may not make it through the night."

The maester takes care to speak quietly, wary of her state of mind perhaps or simply correctly guessing that Cersei would have thrown something at his head had he stood a little closer — and if she did not have to let go of her child to do so.

She would have been tempted to do so all the same, had Robert not interrupted the maester. Impatient and cackling with barely tamed violence like her brute of a husband always is. It does come in handy on occasion.

"I will hear no more of this!" he snaps. Orders the maester to see to her and the child and leave the ruling to the one crowned king, already striding back towards her side — towards their daughter — as he does so.

And then quieter, but no less determined for it: "She will be a princess worthy of the name she carries, for mark my words: She _will_ live. Her blood is strong."

Looking down at the small, flushed face, so much and not at all like her father, Cersei cannot help but agree.

[Cersei has never loved Robert, only ever the idea of him. A love that has been torn asunder by careless cruelty and dismissal. A love she has no interest in learning to regrow. But in this moment, she comes as close as she ever will. It settles something, within her and between them. An understanding that will not mend what has been broken, but may yet solidify into a foundation to be built upon.]

The babe snuffles, one tiny, little fist clasped tightly around Cersei’s finger, and its grip doesn’t loosen until it falls asleep.

And Cersei. Cersei is exhausted, tired beyond measure. Covered as she is in blood and grime and sweat, she wants nothing more than to sink back into her ruined bedding and sleep the barely dawning day away. But she doesn’t dare close her eyes. Too afraid of what may lie in wait in the darkness, too afraid what she may find once she wakes. [Another child gone. Another not yet grown body, still and cold.] She watches instead, entranced, as the child in her arms sleeps on and Robert lingers, the quietest she has ever seen him be.

Hours later, she wakes, eyes wet with tears, chest heaving with terror, to the demanding cries of her firstborn daughter.

[The maester’s warnings of a body born too early and too weak to survive continue, and in another life Cersei might have believed him malicious and foul, might have had him hanged or worse, but she cares not for one grey rat or another. She has a daughter who needs her. A daughter she will not leave in the hands of wet nurses and maids, barely lets out of her sight — for if she_ lost her _— a daughter who, despite the warnings and the concern and the lacking weight, keeps on breathing.

"She will be a breathtaking princess with a beauty to rival your own, your Grace!" a lady from one minor house or anothergasps in awe.

_No_, Cersei thinks but does not say, as she carefully turns her little girl away from the far-too curious eyes of the vipers surrounding her, her smile as lovely as it is cold. _She will be Queen_.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: This was a spontaneous idea I wrote down in 45 minutes. I have about 1.67% of a plan on where to go with this fic. But it's the first time in months that I've felt truly inspired to write something, so I figured I'd post it anyways. Hopefully it will give me some added incentive to stick with it.
> 
> What do you guys think? This is me dipping my toes into 50% of a new fandom, soooo. Intrigued? Worried? Not interested at all? Let me know if you would like to see more!


	2. part ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [The Gods, after all, know no mercy, nor do they let sins such as hers go unpunished.]

_282 AC - 283 AC_

The first moons after Elyanna's birth are wonderful, terrifying, and so utterly exhausting, they leave Cersei a hollowed shell and Robert a stranger in her chambers and beyond them.

[Not in Elyanna's chamber though. The king may not share her desperate, near mad worry for the fragile child — may barely recall the woman he married in place of whom he truly wanted on most days — but his daughter is another matter altogether. Cersei would resent it — and oh, she does, may the Seven forgive her for she finds herself unable to — but she bears the continuous slights in silence. Elyanna. He just had to name their daughter Elyanna. Had to taint the most precious thing she has been given with the ghost of a woman she cannot get rid off.

Robert will never stop caring for their child, at least, not with the name he chose for her. The knowledge is a cold comfort. Sits heavy and unforgiving beneath her breast bone, for what will happen the day her beautiful girl fails to live up to the legacy of a dead woman the living will never be able to match?]

But those are bitter thoughts for the rare moments she doesn't spend by her daughter's side. Concerns for a future uncertain that pale when compared to the immediate threat she faces. For the maester's warnings have not quietened over the months.

Much as it pains me to say so, the princess' is weak, your Grace. She may not live to see her second name day, your Grace. Her lungs are not as strong as they should be, your Grace.

[But she isn't. She is not. Elyanna has Baratheon strength and Lannister wiliness, why can they not see that?]

Cersei is of half a mind to demand his head. Not that Robert would grant her even that much, she knows. The king will not listen to her any more than he listens to Maester Colmar. Oh, she knows what Robert would think, should she come forward with such a request. What they all think, each and every rotten cretin, with their false kindness and genuine love for spectacles.

Hysterical, they'll call her. Too blinded by a mother's love [excuseable, but a weakness all the same] to see the signs for what they so plainly tell.

It should not matter. How often has her father told her as much? Has reminded her that the talk of the smallfolk is of no consequence to family such as theirs?

[He, who had built his legacy on the roaring floods of the rivers and the burnt ruins of Castamere, who had coated their family name in blood and merciless retribution, cloaked their name in horror instead of respect. Men's hypocrisy, Cersei knows well, is found in every family. Even her own. Especially her own.]

But it does. And Cersei would have tired of pretending otherwise a long time ago, would have seen them pay, if only she could ignore her daughter's faltering health. If only her little child wouldn't scream through the nights — colik, their maesters decide, but what good are they, when all they do is argue and talk instead of help? — restless and in pain, if only she would eat properly, gain the weight she so desperately needs. If only Cersei could do anything to ease her child.

[What use is she, then, if even such a simple task as to be entrusted to a woman is beyond her?]

So she prays. Prays in the high sept, prays at her daughter’s bedside, prays in the quiet of her own quarters. Prays to the Mother [for whom else should she pray to?]. Prays to the Maiden [for what is her most precious child if not an innocent?]. Prays to the Warrior [for whose God’s favor if not His does House Baratheon hold?].

She prays to the Stranger most of all.

If the gods are listening, they do not answer and they do not ease her anguish. Yet Elyanna lives, day after day after day. That is all she cares about.

Cersei continues her prayers — can almost feel the spidery-thin web on which her daughter’s life rests now, a precarious balance even the smallest act might throw off — as she holds her child, keeps her close and warm and as well-fed as little Elyanna will accept. But if it, any of it, helps it is not enough.

_Your grace, let me share this burden with you,_ her lady-in-waiting, a girl she has known since her twelfth name day, begs of her. _You need rest, my queen_. _You are not well_._ Let me help you, please!_

But Cersei will hear none of it.

Will hear nothing about another child, an heir to secure Robert’s crown — one that may not die any day now, one that will be a son — when the one she already has, the only one the Gods’ have graced her with, draws ever closer to the stranger’s door. She almost slaps Lord Stannis when he seeks her out to address the issue.

["The realm has need of its queen, your Grace," the dour man says, warns, demands.

"Let it rot then!" she hisses like one of the vipers she finds herself surrounded by day in day out, but cursed with a lion’s ferocity and a poison far deadlier than any blade. "Let it tear and break and burn, eager as it is to be set aflame!" And then quieter, calmer, but no less damning for it. "Let it be known that whatever sense of duty or- or empathy you hope to evoke in me, it is already here, alive and well, tied to the only one who has a right to it."]

Mad with grief and heartbreak, they call her. As the moons pass and Elyanna’s eyes turn a brighter shade of green than even her own, as she finally, _finally_, gods be good, reaches a healthy weight and keeps on growing, babbling, _laughing_, Cersei finds that she does not mind madness if this is indeed the price the Gods demand for her daughter’s life.

*

As Elyanna recovers — against all predictions and malicious whispers, and oh, but Cersei bares her teeth in mockery of a smile at the maesters and king’s council and the court and all the others who _doubted_ — Cersei resumes her place in public at the king’s side once more. She is dearly needed, a strong queen is dearly needed by this young kingdom that has been born of fire, blood and death.

Cersei does not enjoy it as much as she expected to. As with most things in life, he reality of ruling leaves much to be desired. Nevertheless, she is a Lannister. A daughter of Tywin at that, and it shows.

The Red Keep is her home now, and though it lacks much in ways of loyalty and safety, Cersei has quickly found her place among the ladies of the Southern Kingdoms.

[Above them.]

The king wastes much of his days whoring and drinking, often both, and for all the distaste and shame it brings her, Cersei finds her own enjoyment in holding an uncontested place in meetings reserved for men — for none but the king would tell her no, and Robert would have to attend himself, would have to _care_, to do so. A waste of a king and husband he may be, but the drunken brute has his uses.

Then, there are the hours he spends in their daughter’s chambers, tickling her chin and stroking her soft hair. Whispering stories and memories into the night that Cersei won’t be able to unhear. [She will tell her daughter the truth one day. Will ensure that she won’t grow up cherishing the memory of a woman Cersei would rather the world forget, a girl that brought the end of a dynasty and the beginning of a new age, a girl that was lost to her family long before her father burned and her brother bled.

Elyanna will not be that girl. Cersei refuses to allow it.]

And yet. She does not stop Robert. Does not silence his tales. For in her kinder moments, Cersei can think of no one more worthy to fill the shoes of a girl wars were waged over. [In her darkest moments, Cersei wonders what that legacy might mean for her daughter’s future.]

Their unspoken peace begins and ends in their daughter’s chambers. Outside, the war that started with a girl’s silly hopes and a man’s shattered dreams continues to be fought. Some days, Cersei can barely stand breathing the same air as he is. Wants to lash out the moment he reaches for her, for _how dare he_.

But Robert is King and Cersei is Queen and the realm needs an heir. If his practice with the whores she can hear the servants whisper about would at least pay off. She bitterly wonders if they are payed well for their troubles, silences that thought before it can go down too far down a road she may not escape from.

After all, she has no reason to be angry, has she? Robert has allowed her more freedom in the wake of her daughter’s birth [her son’s death] than most would have. Has left her to rest and recover, as moons passed without Cersei leaving the sickbed even when she was bodily capable. Why, when showing such passion and understanding for her soft heart and broken spirit, should he have to restrain himself to his wife? Why not spread his seed across all the seven kingdoms?

Cersei grits her teeth against it. The whispers, the rumors, the lingering glances.

They think her weak. A pretty, little flower from the Westerlands. A bargaining tool for Tywin to cleverly maneuver near the throne —_ in vain_, some of the crueler voices laugh, _for it is not like she has even born the king a son_. Worse, they think her barren — broken — for as whore after whore graces the world with one more kingly bastard, her stomach remains flat.

And Cersei is smarter than they give her credit for, already spreading a net of people and trusted informants all over King’s Landing, but this is a weakness she cannot shield herself against. For what would she tell them? That she tried? That she, one of the most beautiful ladies of the age, cannot entice her own husband into bed? That Robert prefers to wear himself out with whores until he’s too drunk to even recognize her, too drunk to get the one fucking job he has done?

[That Cersei is a lion through and through, clever and cunning and beautiful and ferocious, but she is no wolf and that is a sin Robert cannot forgive her?]

She is drunk herself, on one of those rare nights where even her daughter’s soft breathing cannot calm the turmoil in her mind, when she falls into bed with Jaime — an old sin, an older wound still, of something that could have been had they been born into a different family, a breaking of vows that cannot be undone.

The sun has not yet risen when she wakes, rushes towards her daughter’s chamber, horrified with what she has done, what it may yet cost her. Elyanna is fragile and vulnerable, and the Gods would not be Gods if they knew mercy, nor do they leave sins such as this unpunished.

But her daughter is still there, alive and well. The bright, green eyes she loves so much — for they are Lannister eyes, plain and simple, more beautiful than even her own, and it is fitting, isn’t it, that her daughter will surpass her one day, something so pure and perfect, created by her — greet Cersei as she storms into the room. The child doesn’t cry. Lifts its arms up instead, babbling in that way babes do, and Cersei’s cheeks are wet with tears as she holds her little bird in her arms.

_Not again_, she swears to herself. _Not ever again. I will not risk you, my little dove. Nothing and no one is worth that._

Nine moons later, she gives birth to a beautiful boy, who is alive and screaming and blonde of hair.

[The Gods, after all, know no mercy, nor do they let sins such as hers go unpunished.]

*

With a newborn babe — healthy though her little Joffrey is — and her duties as a queen, Cersei has less time for her beloved daughter than she would like. Her brilliant daughter, whose first word is 'Mother' and who is stumbling around like a little foal on shaky legs these days. Eyes bright and all-seeing and always curious.

It is unfortunate, but it also gives Cersei an idea. A solution for another problem she has been agonizing over.

She needs Jaime gone. The more often he is around her — around her _son_ — the more paranoid she becomes, for reasons even Cersei herself cannot explain. There is no one to suspect, least of all Robert, and neither of them have indulged again. But she cannot risk it, not when the life of her son, so small, so lively already, may well depend on it.

Elyanna’s second name day approaches and, above all else, Cersei wants her children safe and cared for.

_Protect my daughter_, she asks of Jaime, soft and vulnerable like she only is around him. The Golden Son, the Kingslayer, the best of the both of them. The only one she would trust to fulfill his duty. _No matter the cost_.

[Because it is he who broke his vows to save the city they reside in, whom she trusts to break his vows to the king and any other kings that may follow Robert should their fate turn for the worse to protect the innocent once more. He and no one else.]

_Swear him to Elyanna_, she begs of Robert. _She is half-Lannister and he will fight for family when other men would falter. Do this for our daughter, do it for her safety._

Elyanna claps her hands excitedly, points at the Baratheon crest on Jaime’s white cloak and as she calls out "Prongs!" again and again thorough the ceremony, and though Cersei doesn’t know what her little dove is trying to tell them, she cannot seem to stop smiling.

*

Cersei does not care for vows. This particular one though is one she has never intended to break. She would not have sworn it at her daughter’s bedside, had she not intended to see it through.

But being queen in a nest of vipers is exhausting, and though her children fill her days with laughter and joy, her nights are lonely and filled with terror more often than not.

Robert is a better father than Cersei could have ever imagined. [Even if Joffrey does not draw his eyes the way their daughter does.] He is a worse husband too.

She falls in bed with Jaime the way she always does: drunk, scared and hateful, desperate for the warmth and closeness her twin so easily and unquestioningly shares with her.

The next day, Elyanna overbalances on the window ledge facing the courtyard and falls over the edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter wrote itself far easier than I expected. Still, you better don't get used to the length! This is still a WIP and I'm literally winging all of it. That said, how do you like things so far?
> 
> Next chapter: We finally get to take a look into Harry's head.


	3. part iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She falls and there is not a single doubt in her mind that someone will catch her.

_283 AC - 284 AC_

From the day Elyanna is born on the blood-covered dawn of a new age, death walks by her side.

["It is not a fate you have been given, Harry Potter," Professor Trelawney murmurs, a thick cloud of spices and whiskey enveloping her tighter than any winter coat. "It is one you have earned."

Earned, not wanted. There is a terrible tragedy seared into that simple fact, for all that it is a fine distinction few spend so much as a single thought on.]

_Would that unnamed, little boy have lived, had I never been and never come to be?_ she will ask one day, years and years into the future. Silence will be her only answer and in it the fading echoes of death's laughter will ring.

She will have no memory of her birth later on, nor indeed of her first year at all. Thank Merlin for small mercies. Her mother's fear for her life in those early days will be little more than a distant notion buried deep within her subconsciousness. Nor will she recall the way death clung to her back then, cold and comforting, yet far too close. Until she almost choked on it, the tangible sense of something beyond men's understanding. Did choke on it, in fact.

Elyanna doesn't remember the heavy weight bracing down upon her chest. Doesn't remember the struggle for every breath, to escape the grip of something not meant to touch upon the living. Those days are long gone though, and with them the terror they brought.

[Elyanna will be plagued by dreams of drowning in a vast and endless darkness for the rest of her life.]

There is no specific moment in which the realization hits her. There is not even a realization per se.

Her mother is a beautiful woman with a kind, loving voice, blonde hair and sharp green eyes that Elyanna appreciates more and more as her eyesight improves. [His mother's hair is red like flickering flames and her eyes share their color with the deadliest curse there is. He does not remember her voice, but oh, he remembers her screams.]

Her father is strong and loud, but his hands are warm and his grip gentle. [He has his father's hair and sometimes, when he buries his face deep in the glittering cloak that is his most prized possession, he thinks he recalls his father's smell as well.]

Her name is Elyanna. [His name is Harry.] For a long time, this is not a dissonance in their mind. They are who and what they have always been. An orphan boy and a princess both. Two parts of the same coin, molten together too closely to ever be untangled.

Maybe that should have been the end of it, but Harry is more than a two-year-old child. Has been more for a very long time.

[He’s been marked by Death, chosen by Fate — or was it the other way around? — and those ties are neither meaningless nor easily forsaken.]

And so, as Elyanna’s third name day comes and goes, the memories continue to resurface. They were never gone, have been with her from the very beginning, but it is only now that her body is old and developed enough to understand.

At this point, all that is needed is for the right synapse to snap into place and suddenly, Elyanna will recall how Ginny’s lips tasted like apple pie and pumpkin juice when they kissed in the Burrow for the first time after the war was over. Will remember the feeling of a safety blanket encasing his shoulders every time he entered Hogwarts, the only home he had ever known. Will look up at the grey stone ceiling and remember sharing easy jokes with Seamus and helping Neville find his escape artist of a toad.

She is not Harry exactly — for how could she be less than the sum of everything they are — but seeing the Lannister sigil makes her smile softly and think of an old hat crying _GRYFFINDOR!_ and her father’s emblem is the heartwarming confirmation that, no matter where or when, Harry will always be a stag.

It is confusing and messy sometimes, to figure out where _back then_ ends and _here and now _begins. Some things are easy, like singing along to your favorite childhood song. Harry has been called Elyanna for almost three years by the time he understands enough of what his knowledge means. It is a name spoken with affection and pride, has carved out its own place in Harry’s heart, and he responds to it instinctively.

Some things are hard. The memories convoluted yet sticky like sirup, hard to grasp and even harder to work through or let go. There is little around Elyanna to spark those memories and being the curious, excitable three-year old she is, she hardly has the patience or dedication to force them to the surface.

[There's Sirius, who is laughing, always laughing, in spite of his name, his fate, this world, and he doesn't stop even as he _falls_—

There's Ron and Hermione, steady and terrified by his side, always and forever. Their hands clasped tightly in his own as they stand in what is left of the school they love. On the crisp of a battle they can't hope to win. A battle they can't afford to lose.]

In all likelihood, it is for the best. There are things no three-year-old should remember [no seventeen-year-old should have to learn]. And if Elyanna wakes up from nightmares she doesn't remember sometimes, feels the heat of insatiable flames lick at her fingers the first time her mother tells her a story of the Mad King, that is just the way things are.

Besides this world, her world, is filled with so many curious things, long hallways and stone-made walls, gossiping servants and visitors from different lands. The Red Keep is large — larger still to a child not yet old enough to attend its first lessons — and there is so much to _see_.

There are the knights, who are always patient and have a smile and a tale for her. [Except Ser Lurin, who never smiles, but he doesn't spit and call her _freak_, so Elyanna doesn't mind.] There are the kitchen boys who will sneak her food and play with her, so long as not too many eyes are watching. There are the ladies that paint smiles on their lips like maybe it will draw attention away from the sadness in their eyes.

[Elyanna feels like a stupid performance monkey when her mother asks her to recite a poem or sing a song. But there is an inexplicable warmth pooling in her belly when she sees Lady Myrielle's eyes light up — when her mother looks at her with so much pride, she feels dizzy with it.]

There is her mother, who is terribly busy and still always takes the time to see her when Elyanna demands her attention and her father, who laughs so hard he almost falls off the dinner chair the first time she says that she'd like something to fucking drink please. There’s Uncle Jaime, the Kingsguard knight sworn to her — the one her Mother likes best — who watches the world like it is out to get him and watches her like she is the most precious curse he has ever been asked to bear.

There's the tiny babe with a fluff of blonde hair and baby blue eyes that is her brother. The first time Elyanna is allowed to hold him under her mother's watchful eyes, her heart flutters in her chest, too small and tight somehow to contain what she's feeling.

[He's never had a brother, a family.]

"He's so small!" she exclaims. Cries out when a little hand grasps a strand of her hair. Damn but that hurts. Not enough to drive the wide grin off her lips, but still.

"As were you at this age, my little bird," her mother agrees. Bestows a barely-felt kiss onto the top of her head. She looks happier than Elyanna has ever seen her. Almost whole.

"But he'll grow. You both will."

Elyanna struggles to untangle her brother's surprisingly strong grip on her hair without losing her hold on his body. She knows babes are supposed to be small, but he's so much littler than she expected. Her mother helps her, a wistful smile softening the sharp edges of her face.

"Joffrey will be King and you, my dear daughter, will be Queen."

[She likes the sound of that.]

Her brother squirms in her hold, kicks out and giggling Elyanna returns him to her mother's arms. The safest place she has ever known.

*

It is rare for her Uncle Jaime to be missing still by the time Elyanna wakes up — no matter how early that is. And Elyanna is a princess, is a Baratheon and a Lannister all in one, but she is Harry Potter too [not most of all, not yet] and she knows better than to let such a rare opportunity go to waste.

The Red Keep is a maze of hallways, towers and hidden paths made to be explored by keen minds on little feet after all. And Elyanna is too young — has her mother’s love surrounding her, more vicious and cold-blooded than she remembers it being, has her father’s unmovable certainty, has the warmth of something great and terrible humming faintly beneath her skin — to be afraid of dark dungeons and the cells that lie beneath her feet.

[He has spent half his life shoved into dark spaces, pushed into unused corners until the world had need of him again, and for all that he resents it, the darkness welcomes him back like an old friend all the same.]

Slipping into a thin cloak, almost like a robe, Elyanna sneaks out of her chambers before one of the maids can think to check on her. It is early still, daylight but a faint, golden hue on the horizon. And for all that Elyanna feels drawn towards the lower levels of the keep, the dark and all that is hidden within it, it promises to be a beautiful day. There is nothing quite like seeing Kings’ Landing from the higher towers in the early morning hours, when its buildings glint golden in the sunlight and the shades of dawn smooth over the rough edges of the less polished parts the nobles prefer to forget.

So Elyanna climbs the winding stairs towards the higher level instead. She doesn’t bother with the tower — she’s too small to peer over the walls yet and the guards there will not let her pass unsupervised — but the view from the tall windows on the fourth level are just as breathtaking.

By the time Elyanna is climbing the stairs back down — slower than she’d like to be, in her attempt to evade the guards patrolling the hallways — she is tired and out of breath. It’s frustrating, how her body never seems able to keep up with her mind, always falling short when she’s convinced it shouldn’t yet. Really, she can’t wait to be grown-up — or at least tall enough to race down these stairs without risk of stumbling and breaking her neck.

Elyanna is on the second floor, when shrieks of laughter draw her attention. Joyful sounds like this are not as common as the peaceful times she lives in would have you believe. She’s watched the young ladies not much older than her play before, and never would they dare to make such unrestraint noise.

[They remind him of the sneering faces of a student body cloaked in green and silver. And it’s true, they aren’t eleven anymore. The world isn’t black and white. But some notions are hard to let to of — they turned their backs and _left_ — and it’s not a favorable comparison by far.]

Curiosity peaked, Elyanna climbs onto the ridiculously wide window ledge, just low enough to reach. Though not without scraping her knee and palms on the rough stone. Mother won’t be pleased. Carefully, one hand holding on to the thick stone wall by her side, Elyanna leans forward and peers into the courtyard.

A blonde boy is chasing after a laughing kitchen maid that Elyanna can’t remember the name of. Two others, a girl and a boy, are watching the spectacle with smiles on their faces, so the chased girl probably isn’t in need of rescue, even though the blonde boy is wearing the clothes of a noble.

Staring down at the strangely untouched, almost pure scene before her fills her with a strange sense of yearning. She has never been that girl — that boy — and why is it that this thought bothers her?

["He was too young," Harry murmurs, covers the forever still body of Colin Creevey with a blanket with a flick of his wrist. He’s gotten a lot of practice with that motion by now. More than he ever wanted, certainly.

"Weren’t we all?" Luna asks, distracted but all too pointedly.

They’ve pulled her father’s broken body from the ruins of Ravenclaw’s tower less than an hour ago.]

At first, Elyanna doesn’t notice. Too occupied with her own thoughts, too busy puzzling through her own emotions that are not half as easy to understand as one might assume.

There’s a burden pressing down on her shoulder’s that she barely knows is there, for it has always been and she’s never known any different but to carry the weight and live on. And maybe the answer lies in knowledge, in emotions, in being something, someone — _Harry_ — more than she ought to be. Maybe the answer is far more simple and complex than that.

[Death has been walking by her side from the day she joined this world, and perhaps even before that. Long before that. And Elyanna has dreamt of drowning since before she knew what drowning is.]

Elyanna is used to carrying a burden that would have ground lesser men into dust, but it takes her by complete surprise when the pressure, the sheer weight of it, intensifies suddenly and without warning. She gasps for breath even as her body twitches and trembles, as her feet — too sure for a child barely old enough to walk, yet far from sure _enough_ — lose their footing. Can’t even scream as she tumbles forward into nothingness, for all the air has been punched out of her—

Falls.

[Races towards the ground at breath neck speed, deaf to the cries and shouts of the spectators, blind to his surroundings that have shrunken down to a tiny spec of gold he chases and oh, _it’s on_—

Leans forward, flat against his broom. Blinks against the colorless sky, the thick clouds that circle him, surround him, taste like grief and heartbreak. They haven’t caught him yet, haven’t touched him, not yet. There’s death chasing him, made of rotten robes and black shadows, and Harry feels the air crystalize in his lungs, feels his fingers and toes go numb with the cold, feels his body rising ever higher, and he’s never been so _alive_—

His broom is the only thing that keeps him upright. And it’s fast, it’s always been fast, but it’s not enough. He knows it in his bones. Eyes remain fixed on his price as he calculates. Instinct and training and basic understanding of physics even magic obeys. Throws himself forward. Let’s go.]

Falls, free and trapped at once, as close to flying as she has ever come. And. She has never been as much Harry Potter as she is now, in this very moment.

[There’s a broom in chains, a lie carved into human skin, and it turns out that humans can corrupt what even death itself cannot touch.]

She is more Harry Potter than she has ever been. Like Harry, she loves flying, not in spite but because of the fall. Unlike Harry, she does not even for a second doubt that someone will catch her.

*

Someone turns out to be her older but not much taller uncle Tyrion, who looks as surprised at the fact that they both survive the experience unharmed as she isn’t.

[A part of her has always known, she will realize later on, that the warmth singing in her blood and dancing in sparks of electricity between her fingertips would not allow anything less. But that day is a long time coming. And really, meeting the odd blonde boy in the noble clothes with the Lannister sigil is far more interesting.]

Elyanna is too young to understand and cherish the look of utter astonishment on her uncle’s face when her stark-white, shaking mother pulls him into her arms. To understand why, even in that moment, her mother refuses to relinquish her hold on her. Why Uncle Jaime looks at her like she is might disappear if he turns his eyes off her.

Still. Elyanna may be young, but she will remember this day. If only because Tyrion will not allow her to forget that she has been the first — and so far only — girl to fall into his arms before he even had the chance to introduce himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be short?? I don't know what happened????? But okay, sure. Whatever. Have almost 3k instead of the 1k I wanted before finally moving on to more interesting years, ugh.  
Still, I hope you like this (unbetaed) mess! There will be more regarding Harry and his life pre-Westeros in the next chapter, and after that we can hopefully move on to some actual sibling interaction with Joffrey. I have lots of plans for those two *cackles* Thoughts? Ideas? Impressions? Please let me know what you think in the comments!
> 
> Also: Anyone saw Tyrion as the knight-in-shining-armor coming? (And yes, Harry's magic slowed her fall, not that anyone around her seems to realize that.)
> 
> Next chapter: Elyanna is Harry (_somewhat. more than she should be. not enough._). It's a bit of a problem.


	4. part iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Maybe they don't pray to Him because they know He'd answer."

_286 AC - 287 AC_

High up from the towers, King's Landing is a sight to behold.

_A city befit of a king_, her mother likes to tell her brother on the rare moments she lets them climb the stairs to the highest level.

Befit of a king indeed. A king of traders, shouting at the top of their lungs to draw attention to their goods. Of soldiers in their heavy metal skins and clever thieves on light feet. Of women, old and young, skillfully navigating the crowded space.

[A king of beggars and orphans, the lost, the sick and the crippled most of all.]

Elyanna stares, wide-eyed, face pressed against the small window of her carriage. This isn't what she had in mind when she asked to see the city. Her home beyond the walls of the Keep.

Alas, a princess apparently cannot go for a simple stroll through King's Landing. Especially not _this_ princess. Elyanna loves her mother dearly, but she can be a little overbearing. A lot actually. Some days Elyanna feels like her mother expects her to keel over dead the second she leaves her sight.

For the most part, it's nice to be cared for like this. To matter so much to someone, it's like you're the center of the world. But Elyanna is also five already, and there's so much she wants to _do_.

Like visiting the outer rings of the city. Which isn't even that big of a request. They're at peace, are they not? And it's not like there's a lack of loyal soldiers and servants to go around. Fine, Elyanna understands her mother' point. The war may be over, but the lines drawn in the sand haven't been forgotten. [And doesn't that sound a little too familiar?] The small folk of King's Landing serves many masters. First and foremost themselves.

Elyanna hadn't been surprised the first time her mother rejected her request. By the fifth time though, she'd grown annoyed. Annoyed enough to ask her father instead. Who, naturally, decided to send her out that very day, if only because Mother told him not to.

[Maybe one day Elyanna will understand why they married each other. Today is not that day.]

"You're smothering the child, woman," Father had snorted upon hearing her mother's vocal disapproval. "She needs to live, to bloody breathe. It's in her blood!"

Elyanna carefully chooses not to remember the way her mother's eyes had narrowed, her voice twisted from pleading to cruel. "_Her blood is that of a lady, not a wolf, husband of mine._"

Uncle Jaime had quickly led her out of the room. Judging by the ugly red color her father's face had sported, that was a wise decision.

If only they could get along, like they used to, back when she was younger. [Or maybe back then she simply didn't notice the cracks in the pretty, royal facade.]

With a grimace, Elyanna turns her mind back toward the present. It's a bit ridiculous, all these fights over something so unremarkable. She's getting carried in a comfortable wooden box, after all, surrounded by a faithful entourage of armed soldiers. Elyanna hadn't thought it possible that she could be so far removed from the people around her whilst still strictly speaking walking among them.

But she is close, at least. And even inside her carrier, Elyanna can listen to the myriad of voices. Can soak up the busy atmosphere, reminiscent of Hogsmeade on the weekends the students were allowed to visit. [Before the war. Before the homey shops became ruins and he saw ghosts on every corner.] Presses her forehead close enough to the porthole that every step presses the edge uncomfortably into her skull.

The children are the most interesting to observe. They are loud and wild and utterly without shame. One boy, surely no more than a year or two older than Elyanna herself, steals a leaf of bread in full view of at least three of her guards.

_Smart_, Elyanna realizes a moment later. Uncle Jaime would kill any of his men who thought to abandon their post by her side just to catch a little thief. And that's only if her mother wouldn't get her hands on them first. They are just _that_ protective of her — and it never ceases to surprise Elyanna, who has spent an entire life learning that adults cannot be trusted, that each and every one of them will use her for their own advantage.

The boy fades into the crowd with an ease Elyanna envies. Why can't Septa Barba teach her things like that instead of the three different kinds of courtesies she is supposed to use to greet her parents with, depending on the formality of the occasion?

There are many others like that boy. Small children dressed in torn, dirty clothes. With sharp eyes and sunken cheeks. The sight is common, even within the palace, and maybe Elyanna shouldn't have even noticed. Shouldn't have found anything odd about it. After all, Elyanna is a princess. Has never gone hungry a day in her entire life. Has no frame of reference for their hardships, safe that the sight of their bony shoulders and freely displayed rips makes her cringe.

[Has starved in a cupboard for ten years, while the Wizarding World held feasts and banquets in his name.]

"Hold!"

The command slips out without a thought. Elyanna can feel the surprise of her carriers even through the wooden walls. Their hesitation. [They're more afraid of her mother than of her, a bitter voice in the back of her mind whispers. But she is of royal blood, and here, too these people, it means something.]

"I was _not_ asking." She takes care to speak sever and slow, certain of herself, but it's still a surprise when she feels her carrier slowly being lowered onto the ground.

_Do not doubt yourself_, her mother murmurs, a half-forgotten story for long evenings bathed in firelight. _For they will know. Conviction can move men where even good sense and loyal hearts falter_. Of course her mother is right. If there's anyone — and Elyanna includes her father in that statement — in the entire Red Keep that knows how to get things done, it's definitely her mother.

["What am I supposed to say?" he asks, helpless and so terribly amused in spite of it. "I can't _make_ them believe me." There's a fire burning in Hermione's eyes at those words. "How do you know? How can you ask them to fight for you, when you won't even fight for yourself?"]

"Is everything alright, princess?" Uncle Jaime speaks up a moment later, right as Elyanna pushes the door open. He sounds half-concerned, half-wary — but then, her uncle is much smarter than most give him credit for.

Elyanna meets his gaze steadily.

"I wish to take a breath of fresh air." Considering the smell of sickness and waste perpetrating this particular quarter — and Elyanna has no doubt her mother has ensured that she will only be taken to the best and safest of places — it is perhaps the least convincing lie Elyanna has ever told. She does it with a straight face too.

[It's not as much of a lie as she'd like it to be. Elyanna had thought her father facetious when he'd reminded her mother of Elyanna's need to breathe. Now she's wondering if that isn't the simple truth of it. She's felt lighter since leaving the inner walls of the keep, more alive than she remember feeling her entire life.

_What's a pretty cage?_ That sardonic voice sneers in the back of her mind. _A cage_.]

Uncle Jaime's eyes narrow. "Your mother has-"

"My father," Elyanna interrupts, sharper than she means to — except that she's so, so tired of being trapped — "told you to show me King's Landing. So, if you would please be so kind as to show me King's Landing, Ser Jaime?"

It's a slight and an offering for peace at once.

"As you wish, Princess," Jaime says after a heavy pause.

If Elyanna hadn't grown up with him, she would have missed the rage brewing in his clear eyes. As it is, they share too much with her mother's and even Joffrey's, when you get him angry enough, for her not to notice.Perhaps that should make her pause. Elyanna slips past her sworn guard's towering form instead, heads straight towards a stand for baked breads and pies, manned by an aged man with greying hair and two missing fingers.

"How much for one of your largest pies?" she asks.

The man turns around, mouth already opening, only for his eyes to widen incredulously as he catches sight of her. Or her incredibly unsubtle entourage, more likely.

"N-nothing, young princess," the poor man stutters. "I couldn't be more honored, please, take this one for free!"

Elyanna blinks. Something is warring inside her, dislikes this turn of events, but. She has no coins, and few ideas how to get her hands on some. She will have to rectify that.

"Thank you, kind sir. You are too gracious." She smiles.

The pie smells delicious, but as tempting as it is to taste it, Elyanna turns on her heels and strides down the street. They must make quite the picture, a little girl surrounded by an armed guard trying to predict her movements. Perhaps it is the _other_ part of her that thinks the entire charade ridiculous, but Elyanna's lips quirk into a sardonic grin nonetheless.

"_Elyanna_," Jaime mutters, too quiet to be heard by his men over the noise of the market around them. The warning, though, is clear.

There's only so far Jaime will go for her. Or rather, there's only so far Jaime will go against her mother. Slipping into the small side streets, out of the immediate eye of the wider public, is apparently where he draws the line.

No matter.

Elyanna darts past her uncle in one quick motion — and it's not smart, it isn't, to race through the crowds of people who have every reason to despise her, if not for who she is, then for what she has, she knows that [but, for better or worse, Harry has always been more Gryffindor than Slytherin] — but before her guards have a chance to exclaim in outrage, she sinks to her knees in front of a little boy. He's propped up on the wall, as out of the way of most people as he can be in a crowded place like this. Elyanna wouldn't have noticed him at all if not for a woman who had stopped to spit on him.

The boy isn't actually that little, she notices, now that she's seeing him from up close. Maybe two or three years older than her. He's missing a foot and there's a torn piece of cloth tied around his head that indicates he has lost his eyes.

He must hear her as she kneels down in front of him though because his head turns towards her. Elyanna blinks and — there's a shadow of silver eyes painted on that stained piece of fabric, widening with horror as he—

Gasping, Elyanna sways forward and almost loses her balance. _That_. That is new.

"Hello." It takes her tongue more effort to shape the word than it should. Elyanna grits her teeth and pulls herself together. She's better than this and really, she can't afford not to be. "What's your name?"

The boy licks his lips, tilts his head sideways. There's the beginning of a frown peaking over the cloth covering half his forehead. "Eon, m'lady."

"Eon." Elyanna sounds out the name carefully. It holds no memories or associations the way some of the others do — Tyrion, for one, always makes her think of twinkling blue eyes and a barking laugh, even though their names aren't that similar at all — which is nice. Another breath of fresh air. "My name is Elyanna. Would you please hold out your hand?"

The boy's frown deepens and there's a displeased tilt at the corners of his mouth. Elyanna can't blame him. And it probably doesn't help that her escorts have already caught up with her. Their heavy steps and clinking armor is hard to miss.

"If it pleases you, m'lady."

At that, Elyanna smiles for real. Because the boy — Eon — has said the right words, but he doesn't sound like he means it at all. Makes them sound like an insult, the way mother and father do when they talk to each other sometimes. Most times.

"I like you," she snorts under her breath and places the pie in his outstretched hands. She pretends not to notice that Eon holds them out like he's expecting to be placed in chains. "Here. For you."

"M'lady," Eon says after a long moment of silence, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. "I don't think I wanna know how I'd earn this."

Elyanna laughs. [Who knew laughter could make one feel so sad?] Gently pushes the pie towards Eon, who's still holding out his hands.

"It's a present, Eon. One cannot earn a present."

"My princess, you are expected back at the keep within the hour," Uncle Jaime speaks up before Eon has come up with a response. Which Elyanna interprets as a finely reworded _Enough playing with the locals, kiddo, I'm gonna carry your ass back to the castle whether you like it or not_.

"Of course, Ser Jaime." She quickly rises to her feet, but turns to the boy one more time. "Be well, Eon. I pray the Stranger will not visit you before your time."

The boy smiles, a bit like he's surprised he can. "People do not pray to the Stranger."

And really, Elyanna can't ignore a perfect set-up like that. She grins, cutting and sweet, because if Eon can't see, he damn well can hear it in her voice. "I'm not _people_."

A statement that is driven home when the soldiers surround her once more, a tighter circle this time. Oh, she's going to pay for her antics. But Eon is already devouring the pie she's given him, and Elyanna can't bring herself to regret it one bit.

Not even when her mother yells — at Uncle Jaime, not Elyanna, never her. Not when, a long time later, after Jaime has stormed off and Mother has smashed another cup against the wall, her mother demands a promise Elyanna isn't prepared to give.

"He was just a boy, Mother. How could I not give him food, when it's within my power to do so?"

"Oh, darling." Her mother closes her eyes as if pained. "Do you think that boy would hesitate for a a single moment to drive a knife between your rips if someone offered him the coin for it? Do you think he will be grateful to you, a stranger?" Her mother shakes her head, gently cards a hand through Elyanna's dark hair. "You have a soft heart, my daughter, but your kindness will not be rewarded. Not here. Not in this city."

Elyanna shrugs. Leans her head against her mother's shoulder, easily relaxing back into the familiar warmth. Thinks of a boy with knobby knees and ratty clothes and a red-haired stranger who took one look and saw a kindred soul.

"Sometimes kindness is its own reward."

*

"Scoot over!" Elyanna demands in a whisper under her breath. Not that the guards don't know exactly where she is, but there's no need to clue Joffrey into that fact. Her brother is adorable when he thinks he's being sneaky.

He's also adorable when he squints blearily up at her from where he's buried himself under blankets and silks. But he's barely four, Elyanna figures that's more a matter of age than Joffrey in particularly.

"G'way!"

"Nope."

"Leave me alone!"

"Still no."

Joffrey sits up for the single purpose of glaring balefully at her. "I demand you leave me alone at once!"

Elyanna snorts. "Try that again when you're two heads taller," she advises drily. "Now scoot over."

"Y-you can't!" Joffrey sounds scandalized. Really, it has to be his age — and his huge, green eyes — because expressions like that aren't supposed to be cute. "I'm THE prince! This is my bed!"

"Well, I'm THE princess," Elyanna stresses, smug smile and all. "And I say _learn to share_. Or I'm not going to tell you another story!"

Her brother frowns at that — it's more of an exaggerated pout, really — his desire for another tale clearly warring with his equally strong desire to be a brat.

"Fine," he sighs loudly a moment later and rolls onto the left side to make room for her.

"Alrighty." Elyanna takes a moment to make herself comfortable in the soft silks. Slings an arm around her brother's shoulders.

"There was once a servant boy who lived in a small cupboard in a very big castle. The boy did not have many friends, but he shared his cupboard with a large family of spiders, and they were very dear to him. One day—"

*

"Sister Barba?" Elyanna asks suddenly, interrupting one of her lectures on the history of the Great Houses of Westeros. "Why don't most people pray to the Stranger?"

"What?" The septa looks visibly startled.

"It's just, people are always praying to the Mother or the Warrior or the Maiden for one thing or another." Elyanna shrugs, then immediately corrects her posture at a chiding glare from the elderly woman. "I've heard people ask for the Father's judgement, demand answers from the Crone and even the Smith every once in a while. I hadn't really noticed, but- A friend told me people don't pray to the Stranger. Why is that?"

The septa is quiet for a long while, her milky eyes resting on Elyanna as she thinks. "I don't know, my dear child. But I would think that most folks don't like to think of the Stranger until he's already upon them and that they spend much more time praying for something they know than something that they don't."

Elyanna pulls a face, not at all satisfied with that answer.

[There's a girl with fiery hair that will never marry her childhood sweetheart. There's a little boy who will never have his godfather by his side as he rides off to Hogwarts for the very first time. There's a pregnant brunette, whose child will never get to meet her best friend. There is a dagger, bloodied and cursed, and a story cut short that was only just beginning.]

"Maybe they don't pray to Him because they know He'd answer. That He's always listening," Elyanna says softly and despite the sharp glance Sister Barba sends her she keeps her silence for the rest of her lessons.

*

For her sixth name day, Elyanna asks that all children of King's Landing under the age of ten be given a freshly-baked loaf of bread.

"_Why_?" Joffrey asks her, incredulous and bewildered.

[There's something in that lack of understanding, something precious and dangerous all at once. And so that very night Elyanna spins a story of a child locked away in a stone tower that the world forgot and of the rabid hunger that comes from never receiving quite enough. But most of all, she talks about the injured owl that child finds, and how it shares what little food it has managed to gather with the animal.]

"_Foolish_." Her father shakes his head, a far-away look in his eyes. "_Foolish and soft and utterly mad to boot. Well, you've heard the girl. See it done!_"

[He'll take her aside a few days later and tell her a story of a girl with wolf's blood in her veins and dreams too big for the world she's been born into. A girl that could've been salvation and condemned them instead. A girl whose name she carries.

That night, thinking of a noble girl long dead, Elyanna thinks that she would've liked to meet this Lyanna Stark. The woman her mother despises. The woman her father loves. The woman the world forgot, when it shouldn't have. She falls asleep with the image of a dark haired woman with sad eyes in her head, and whatever she dreams that night, she doesn't remember in the morning.]

"You may think you have done them a kindness, yet brought them nothing but short-lasting relief." Her mother tsks. "What of tomorrow, when the bread is gone and they are all the more hungry for it? Will you feed them again, my sweetling? Will you give and give them without cause, until even your wealth has run dry, until you have nothing left for even just yourself, and still they'll demand more?"

"It's more than anyone else in this stupid city has bothered to do!" Elyanna hisses, furious and disappointed in herself for somehow expecting something different. She storms off without waiting to be excused and locks herself into her room for the rest of the day.

[Let them think him too weak, too trusting, too soft. Let them. When it's all said and done, he'll either still be able to look into the mirror or he'll be too dead to care. At the moment, he has a hard time deciding which outcome he'd prefer.]

*

That night, long after all candles have been blown out and Elyanna has fallen asleep, Cersei quietly enters her daughter's chambers. Watches the young, peaceful face that is only just beginning to grow into the beauty it will one day be.

"Oh, my darling," Cersei murmurs — not bird, not dove, not since her child fell and they almost lost her for good — traces the dried tear tracks on those soft cheeks.

_Don't you see? This world was never yours to save._

Slowly she lowers her hand, allows it to fall uselessly to her side. Takes a step back from the bed where her daughter is so sweetly resting. The picture she makes almost hurts to look at because if there is one thing Cersei has learnt, it's that innocence like this don't last. It's in moments like these that she fears for her little girl, for what that little girl might have to become if she is to have any chance at all to survive into adulthood. [The Red Keep makes monsters and murderers of them all.]

_Oh, my darling, sleep now, let it be_.

Cersei turns her back on the heartbreaking sight, glances out of the window instead. It's a bright night, the sky is clear and filled with stars. Beautiful, some might call it. Cersei watches the shadows move over uneven surface, the city asleep to all those who may watch it right now. The certainty, calm and devastating, settles deep within her bones.

_You are meant to watch it burn_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is not what I planned for this chapter. Which probably shouldn't surprise anyone. No matter. On the bright side, I've figured a lot plot-related stuff out (what I'm gonna do with Ned for example. I also have some ideas for Arya, a plan for Sansa that a lot of people will probably hate and a very good idea for what I'd call the events of S1 in this 'verse.  
[There's no S1, just so we're clear. Things are already changing, and I'm too big a fan of the butterfly effect, not to mention that I'm not in the mood to rehash that mess.]
> 
> Please let me know what you think of this chapter!  
(And yes, there's already quite a few things that will be important later on, I'll answer one question regarding my plan's for this fic plot from everyone who guesses what role Eon will play)


	5. part v

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The world is owned by men, and whatever you do, whatever you achieve, they won’t ever allow you to forget that."

_287 AC - 288 AC_

Perhaps the most embarrassing part of it all is that it takes Elyanna almost seven years to realize that she isn’t a stag.

And why wouldn’t it? Elyanna is a princess. Few people dare tell a princess what to do and what not to do — though Sister Barba has clear opinions on these things that should be headed, lest one earn a smack or two. As Elyanna grows, most of her hours are filled with lessons of one kind or another. Lessons on the sigils and words of different houses and their histories with each other. Although why it matters which families the Baratheons and Lannisters have married into four generations ago is a mystery Elyanna hasn’t solved yet. Lessons on proper etiquette that reminds her of a spoiled, blonde boy who liked to sneer her last name like the worst sort of curse. Lessons on how to stitch and sew. Lessons on the Faith of the Seven-Faced God.

[Elyanna doesn’t think God has one face, much less seven. Sister Barba doesn’t appreciate that type of talk though, so she keeps her opinion to herself.]

It’s only thanks to Joffrey that Elyanna even realizes that there’s something she’s missing. Until her brother reaches the age of five, she doesn’t know any way other than the one she lives. Then Joffrey’s fifth name day comes and goes, and suddenly things change.

Joffrey doesn’t share her lessons anymore. Doesn’t struggle to wield a needle properly because he wants to learn how to stitch pretty pictures like his sister does. Now one of her father’s Kingsguard, an older man with a kind face named Ser Barristan, takes Joffrey with him every morning after they’ve broken their fast together. To teach him how to hold a sword and properly wield an arrow, Joffrey chatters excitedly in the evening — when he isn’t tired enough to fall asleep over his meal, that is.

Their mother purses her lips in displeasure but keeps quiet and their father regales them with tales of battles and mischief that he got up to when he was just a boy himself. Sometimes, when he’s drunk more than four cups of wine and his booming voice grows louder still, Mother cuts those stories short and sends them to bed. Her father speaks of many women on those evenings, but not one named Cersei, never that.

[Elyanna is young, but not as young as she appears to be. She is old enough to understand that her parents hate each other almost as much as they love her.]

"Can I join Joffrey’s lessons?" Elyanna asks, confused as to why it hasn’t been offered to her in the first place.

"What?!" Joffrey laughs. "You can’t! You’re a girl! Girls can’t fight, everyone knows that."

There’s an ugly, scratching sound as Mother puts too much pressure on her knife, while father chuckles. Neither of them disagree though.

And Elyanna? Elyanna doesn’t argue or get angry. She simply stares.

[They call her princess and m’lady, titles she is as familiar with as with her own name. Elyanna has never given them a second thought, just like she hasn’t ever thought to question why her parents chose the name they did for her. It hasn’t occurred to her to wonder about that, to ask why her brother is called prince instead. On some level, Elyanna is aware of the differences between her and Joffrey — the differences between _now_ and _then_ — but that awareness is dimmed by the facts she knows for certain. The axioms she’s built her entire existence around.]

Elyanna is a boy. That is one thing she knows for sure.

Unfortunately, it seems that the rest of the world has missed that fact.

[She tries to join her brother’s lesson a few times, all the same. But Ser Barristan or Ser Mandon always escort her back to her quarters, and the kinder they are about it, the more Elyanna wants to scream in frustration. Why don’t they _see_?]

_A pretty cage, but a cage all the same_, hums the ever-present voice in her mind, sympathetic and utterly resigned. _What else is new?_

_"_Don’t expect the world to do right by you, my sweet." Her mother sighs, shakes her head. "The world is owned by men, and whatever you do, whatever you achieve, they won’t ever allow you to forget that."

There is no belying the bitterness in her voice.

Elyanna picks up her sewing kit again. This, at least, is a task she doesn’t mind learning. [Too familiar with torn clothes no one bothers to fix. Too clear are the memories of living on the run, of resources running out and the quality of their robes being the least worry on their minds.] Carefully chooses a Lannister-red thread.

"You’re quiet, my darling," her mother breaks the silence after a while. "What’s on your mind?"

Elyanna bites her bottom lip. Adds another line of stitches with a steady hand. Her work is coming along nicely.

"What place does a queen have in a world like that?" she asks finally. Wary of the answer, yet driven by the need to know.

For a moment, Elyanna swears she sees the shadows deepening in her mother’s face. Then the moment passes and Mother smiles the smile Elyanna likes best: slow and vicious and eager to draw blood.

"To rule, of course. What else could a queen possibly be meant to do?"

Elyanna smiles back, the tension in her shoulders’ easing as she returns her attention back to the matter at hand. Even so, there’s a part of her that doesn’t believe her mother. [A part that was raised to die for a people he barely got the chance to know and a greater good that far too easily forsook the innocent it was meant to protect. A part that was outcast, ridiculed — _hunted_.] And that part is larger than she’d like to admit.

It grates at her, more than she can put into words, that her father’s symbol, one she once considered a sign of belonging, of home, is now tainted by this. Because it might have taken her seven years to realize, but Elyanna Baratheon is no stag. She is a doe.

[The difference is a negligible one, isn’t it? It barely even matters. Except it does. Of course it does. And for everything this life has given _her_ — a mother, a father, a brother, a family — _he_ has lived twenty years constantly looking over his shoulder and it still wasn’t enough. He’s so fucking tired of being prey.]

That night, for the very first time since Elyanna learnt that her father has chosen to name her after the woman he loved instead of the one he married, she falls asleep wishing she were a wolf instead.

*

She vents her frustration to her young uncle Tyrion, who is visiting them a few weeks later. For who — save her mother, of course — will understand her better than her grandfather’s supposed heir, who was born a dwarf? Elyanna has grown much since Tyrion’s last visit. She is not as blind to the sneers and jibes he receives as she used to be. Nor does she miss the stilted interaction between her mother and uncle, though Uncle Jaime swears that they used to be worse.

Tyrion sighs and refills his cup with their finest Dornish wine. Elyanna suspects it’s an acquired taste, for she certainly doesn’t enjoy it.

"You’re a smart girl, Elyanna." He climbs onto his too-high seat with a huff. "You’ve been born into one of the richest houses of Westeros, and the noble family no less. I can see the Baratheon stubbornness in you and and a swift mind that grows ever sharper — that’s a weapon all on its own. A kind heart too, though Gods know where you picked it up. Certainly wasn’t from your mother’s side."

Tyrion takes a deep gulp of wine. His forehead is creased with more wrinkles than a boy of four and ten has any right to have.

"What you do have, are her eyes. Use them. If you wish to learn to fight, who am I to tell you not to. Figure out how to talk to people. Figure out what they want and give it to them. That’s all there really is to it."

Elyanna thinks those words over while Tyrion takes another drink. "That’s not particularly helpful, Uncle Tyrion."

"It wouldn’t be helpful if you didn’t have to figure out the answer on your own." Tyrion smirks and Elyanna’s eyes narrow at the issued challenge.

"I will."

"Of that I have no doubt." Tyrion laughs, though it’s still more of a giggle, really.

"Oh!" Elyanna exclaims. "I almost forgot. Here!" She presents him with a silky handkerchief. "I made it for you."

Tyrion looks surprised at that. The way he used to look when Elyanna hugged him or told him to return soon, before he learned to hide it better. But he takes the offered cloth carefully, like he’s holding something incredibly precious — and that’s one of the reasons Tyrion is her favorite person to surprise — as he inspects the emblem she’s stitched into the cool fabric herself.

"Well, it’s got the Lannister colors for sure. But why a sword?"

Elyanna glances at the image of a long, fairly thin sword, its shaft adorned with red rubies, the tip of its blade dripping in blood. It’s fine work, if she may say so. And if there’s an inscription missing on that blade, of a name none around her would even recognize, well, nobody has to know.

"Because it’s as close as they let me to wielding one," she answers simply, honestly.

Tyrion laughs, startled and a little wet.

"Never change, Elyanna." He shakes his head, golden locks bouncing wildly. "I’ve said it before and I say it again, you’re smarter than you have any right to be. That’s why you’re my favorite niece."

"I’m your only niece, Uncle Tyrion," Elyanna says drily, but she’s smiling just as wide as he is.

*

The Red Keep is a fortress. Like all castles Elyanna has read about — like Hogwarts — it’s filled with hidden passages, history and secrets. And like an eleven-year-old boy-that-wasn’t, too curious, too stubborn, she uses every opportunity offered to her to explore. Said opportunities aren’t as plentiful as she’d like, but they are fairly common.

It helps, of course, that Jaime is her constant shadow and most of the guards like her. Probably helps that she doesn’t throw things at them when she gets too angry to speak properly, like her temperamental brother is known to do.

They’ve had words on the matter and Elyanna has found herself explaining how people serve a prince they like better than one they detest more than once. She loves her mother with all her heart, but even Elyanna can tell she’s spoiling Joffrey. Spoiling them both.

[There’s an overweight boy who shouts insults and calls him names and doesn’t grow as a person until a dementor almost takes his life — and that boy won’t be _her_ brother.]

Elyanna has explored every nook and cranny of the ground levels. Has stolen away often enough to the higher floors as well, to enjoy the view as much as to find the niches that hide you from plain sight, so that you may watch the world move on around you. But it is the lower levels that truly hold her fascination. The ones her mother has forbidden her from visiting.

Elyanna isn’t four anymore. She knows that what is hidden down there are tombs and prison cells, all the ugly and the rotten that the habitants of the keep like to pretend doesn’t exist. It shouldn’t surprise anyone that it only makes her want to see those parts more.

Despite her healthy sense of curiosity, Elyanna has only been down to the second lower level thus far. The air down there is thick and humid, the stench of it so heavy you feel it pressing down on your very bones. Elyanna still vaguely recalls how dizzy she felt by the time she reached the second level, how she barely had the chance to look around before she literally ran into one of the stationed guards. It was Levin at least, whom she likes well enough, even if he immediately escorted her up on even ground, convinced that the sight of the pleading prisoners had shaken her. A fact that had been hard to argue with, considering she’d been trembling like a leaf. Elyanna grimaces at the memory. Not one of her finest moments.

Today Elyanna is determined to reach the third underground level. Where the dragon skulls lie. Not the small ones kept around as relics of a broken dynasty, no. The big ones, taller than a grown man’s body, with fangs the length of her entire leg. At least that’s what one of kitchen boys, Mern, had told her. Perhaps he’d meant to frighten her, but if so, he must have been deeply disappointed by her awed response.

[Elyanna has dreamt of flying with dragons since before she knew what dragons are.]

And these may be long dead and gone, but Elyanna needs to see them. So she slips from Ser Mandon’s sight as soon as opportunity allows — he’s kind and loyal and intelligent, but he’s not Uncle Jaime, who reads her like an open book, and he’s not Sister Barba, who’s advanced age has in no way dulled her good sense — and disappears into one of the many hidden passages she loves so much. They feel like home, even the ones she’s only just discovering.

Then she’s climbing down the winding stairs. She doesn’t attempt to stay in the shadows — such behavior tends to draw the eye far more than a calm disposition will — just takes care to avoid theeyes of the two gold cloaks that pass her on her way. Like the cats the Red Keep is filled with, Elyanna flits from place to place, soundless and unseen.

The air grows warmer around her, causes sweat to break out on her skin as she climbs down another set of stairs. No, Elyanna thinks wryly, her memory didn’t deceive her. If anything, the air down here is even worse than she remembers. The longer she climbs, the more heavily does it curl around her, as though it’s slowly solidifying around her body. An impenetrable wall pressing down on her.

Elyanna grits her teeth. It’s only the second level and she really, really wants to see those dragons. Besides men are manning these parts of the keep every day. It must be simple exhaustion, then, or perhaps her mind is playing tricks on her.

What kind of Gryffindor would she be, if all it took was a little discomfort to make her lose her nerves?

Setting her shoulders in determination, Elyanna continues her slow descend. She walks closely by the walls, one hand outstretched to keep her balance, for the pressure doesn’t abate. If anything, it steadily grows worse. Elyanna breathes. Forces herself to concentrate on it. To keep the motion calm and steady. [Easier said then done, but what about life isn’t?]

Rationally, Elyanna knows she’s breathing, is absolutely sure of it, yet her body insists she doesn’t. That there is no air to draw into her lungs. Nothing but the endlessly mounting pressure, bearing down on her. There’s panic clawing at the back of her throat and as much as Elyanna knows she can’t give in, that’s easier said than done when a wave of pure instinctual fear crashes over her like a never-ending flood.

Black spots dance in front of her eyes until she’s dizzy with the sight of them, and even though Elyanna is distantly aware that she’s losing her footing, she doesn’t feel herself falling down the stairs. She doesn’t feel anything at all.

*

A gold cloak will find her crumbled form later on at the bottom of the stairs to the third lower floor. He will see her dress torn and her face scratched bloody, and pale like a sheet he will rush her to the Maester.

The Queen will scream and cry, and the King will shout and rage, for who would dare lay hand on the sweet princess, their beloved daughter? Within their own home, no less? The Kingslayer will stalk down the hallways with a thunderous scowl on his handsome features, while the Prince will refuse to leave his room.

Half a day later, Elyanna will wake to her mother’s grey face and her brother’s bloodshot eyes, to her father’s demands for a name or face, wondering how many more times she will have to put her family through these moments. Make them suffer this fear of losing her far too soon.

[Elyanna will wake to a scar, ugly and blood-red, carved into her skin in the shape of a lightening bolt and she will _laugh_, laugh until she cries.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're fast approaching the end of Elyanna's "childhood". I think there's gonna be 1-2 more chapters before we move to the pre-canon-leading-up-to-canon events. What do you think about this turn of events? (Btw the offer regarding Eon still stands until the next chapter ;) )


	6. part vi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Nothing good comes from waking the dead.]

_288 AC - 289 AC_

It’s not a rarity for Elyanna to attend one of her brother’s fighting lessons. Not to partake, of course — Whatever would the court say too that? No, it simply could not be allowed and that alone has Elyanna itching to — but to observe. To praise Joffrey and be suitably impressed by the men training in the yard.

["How can I be impressed of men so afraid that they’ll be bested by a woman, they forbid us from learning at all?" she asks Jaime after watching the giggling ladies nearby for a couple of minutes in utter confusion.

Jaime stares at her in silence for a long moment before he bursts out laughing, so loud and hard it distracts Joffrey enough to almost lose a finger.

"That— Now that is indeed a most pertinent question," he tells her with a mischievous twinkle when he’s finally calmed down. "Why don’t you go and ask your father the next time he holds an open court? I’m sure one of the many knights in attendance will have a proper answer for you."

Elyanna does — how could she resist such a chance, now that her uncle has so kindly brought it to her attention — with the guileless eyes of a Marauder born and raised. And she loves Tyrion, loves him deeply, but this is why Uncle Jaime is her favorite.]

Typically, Elyanna spends most of her time keeping track of Joffrey’s movements and exercises. There is no one who can keep her from repeating them in the privacy of her own chambers, after all. And really, what the men don’t know won’t hurt their sensitive self-esteem too much.

But not today. Today, she can’t concentrate on her brother’s footwork which the master-of-arms corrects mercilessly or on the way he shifts his stance.

It’s the first day she has been allowed back outside after her unfortunate tumble down the stairs (Elyanna’s words) or her failed assassination (as her mother insists it could be). Elyanna honestly can’t imagine how an assassination on her could have possibly failed. It’s not like she’d been in any condition to defend herself. And carving a lightening bolt into her forehead is a very specific thing to do, even in this world. Never mind that Maester Colmar has been unable to figure out how anyone could have created such a wound — one that is inflamed but does not heal, the broken skin too rough to have been cut by a knife, yet the line too fine to be caused by scratching nails.

_It’s not a wound_, Elyanna is of half a mind to tell him. _It’s a curse_.

A curse of magic or a curse of a life best forgotten, only time may tell. Then again, does it matter? It is a mark she is familiar with. Has carried all her life. And for every time Mother’s eyes shutter when they catch sight of the horrific wound that looks as though it is only just beginning to scar — like it had looked all his life, until he took Voldemort’s killing curse to the face and even that didn’t truly erase the mark — every time the ladies of the court whisper where they think she can’t hear, every time Joffrey grits his teeth and Father falls silent where he used to speak, Elyanna thinks of a boy revered and despised for the scar she carries. A boy who’d wished to be normal above all else, to disappear into the masses never to be seen again.

But Elyanna will be a queen some day and for every gaze flickering up to her forehead, every scornful remark that is not quiet enough to escape her hearing, she stands taller and smiles wider. It has taken twenty eight years, a rebirth and the unconditional but oh so vicious love of her family, but Elyanna has finally come to terms with being known for a scar. There’s something achingly familiar about the face that greets her in the mirrors these days — of a boy the world forgot when it didn’t need him. A boy deserving of being remembered.

[She won’t tell, not ever, but she’s _missed_ it.]

No, this is no thinly-veiled threat aimed at her parents, nor is it an omen from the Gods, Old or New.

[And if it was, it is a message meant for Harry Potter, and him alone. But Harry Potter bled out in a dirty alley, stabbed in the back in the truest sense, and Elyanna has no wish to disturb his final rest. Nothing good comes from waking the dead.]

Her family, unfortunately, is not willing to let the incident go. Elyanna can’t blame them, but neither can she offer them the answers they would need to lay their worries to rest. Her mother, ever at her wildest when in defense of her cubs, has been cruel and malicious to ladies, lords and servants alike these past weeks. Her temper short and her forgiveness non-existent. Her father, too, is of a mind to start fights and battles — the temptation for clearly drawn lines and recognizable enemies too great to resist. It doesn’t stop his out-of-wedlock activities, but nothing ever does these days. Elyanna has come to terms with the fact that her parents’ don’t love each other.

She’s less acceptant of the fact that it might be their love for her that will ultimately break them. It’s not fair, to have them suffer this terror of an unknown threat. To have her mother eye every stranger — every friend — with suspicion. To hear Father rage against the Gods that they will not take this Lyanna from him.

[There’s Jaime, too, who shadows her in ways he’s not done before. Eyes their surroundings not with familiarity but wariness, one born from living in enemy territory. His twitching startles her sometimes, a remnant of an unlearned habit, the way his hand will reach for his sword before his mind has caught up with the situation. But no one pays much attention to Jaime — to the Kingslayer, certainly, but never Ser Jaime, who is hated for being a Lannister and yet his heritage forgotten as often as it pleases the vipers around them, overshadowed by a reputation he can’t escape — who is clothed in white and gold, masking the dark shadows under his eyes to those who can’t be bothered to take a closer look.]

Elyanna’s heart aches for her family. For their pain that she doesn’t know how to ease. But it is Joffrey, and Joffrey only, for whom her heart breaks. Of course it is him.

Because Elyanna loves her parents — equally, no matter how often they try to outdo each other — but they aren’t her responsibility the way her younger brother is.

Hers to teach, all the things people would not think or dare or want to teach a future king. Hers to tease, for who else would dare offend Joffrey’s pride? Hers to advise and argue with, for she was the one he felt on even footing with, the one who would not just speak but also listen. Hers to adore and defend and reprimand.

Hers to watch now, on this warm, sunny day, as he is taught the ways of the sword under the legendary Ser Barristan. If their Uncle Jaime is any indication, it means great things for Joffrey’s future abilities, should he choose to apply himself. And he has.

Joffrey has always been eager for these lessons. For something he is allowed to do first. Something where Elyanna won’t outshine him, simply because she’s been there longer. He deserves that, even though it has taken moons for Elyanna to admit as much to herself. It burns — maybe especially because she’s not allowed this one thing, and really, what’s the point of being a princess if you don’t get to make your own rules — but she tries to be happy for him nonetheless. To be a good sister.

This, though, is something else. Joffrey likes his lessons, yes. But he has never really been passionate about it. Not that Elyanna understands much about these things — who’s fault is that, again? — but she’s spent hours listening to Jaime bemoan the fact that his nephew hasn’t inherited his own love for sword fighting. He probably feels like this might have been something he could have bonded with Joffrey with. Alas, for all that he whines and snarls, Elyanna knows her brother enjoys their shared history lessons more.

[Though not as much as the tales she tells him, of the Girl Who Stole Time, and the Boy Who Flew With Death, of the Cursed Ferret Boy and the Girl Who Loved Too Much, of the Family Of Seven, of the Four Thieves With Hearts Of Gold That Could Only Be Broken By The Betrayal Of One Of Their Own. Really, who can blame him? Elyanna can barely believe herself how interesting his life has been sometimes. _May you live in interesting times indeed_.]

Lately though this has changed. Radically so. People can talk about boys being boys all they want, but Elyanna knows the truth. It’s obvious, plain and simple. Even Septa Barba knows and she never sets foot in the training yard when the men are at work there.

Joffrey was by her side when Elyanna woke up after her accident in the lower levels. That she had expected. What had surprised her was that her brother hadn’t returned to visit her the next day, or the one after that. He hadn’t returned at all, not even when Elyanna had been allowed to return to her own chambers under strict orders to rest and do nothing strenuous for another week at least.

[_As though they ever let her do anything strenuous_, Elyanna privately snorts. _Please. Don’t make her laugh. _She still remembers kneeling on cold kitchen tiles and scrubbing the floor until her knees were black and blue. She remembers running from stupid boys who were unfortunately smart enough in larger groups. She remembers blindly pressing her hands against a burning face and she remembers fighting for her _life_. Except no, that’s not quite right, is it?]

At first, Elyanna had believed her brother angry with her. For the attention her parents gave her, perhaps. Neither of them is a stranger to envy and it was Elyanna who taught her brother to take a step back and distance himself, lest he say something in the heat of the moment he might not be able to take back. She can hardly complain when Joffrey actually listens to her, can she?

But no. Having spoken to Mern, Sister Barba and her mother, Elyanna is certain that it isn’t envy that has kept her brother from her side. He’s simply been too busy. Training too hard, everyone’s been telling her.

A handy excuse, for all that it appears to be true. Now that Elyanna sees him at work with her own eyes, sees his features hard and frozen, sees the fervor burning in his eyes, sees him keep on practice again and again long after Ser Barristan ends their lesson, she can imagine it. Her little brother exhausting himself to the point where he falls asleep on his feet each night. And Harry — who learned the Patronus charm at thirteen because he had to, taught it a group of students at fifteen because there was no other option — knows this type of drive all too well. Has seen people die for it. Has died for it.

_What would Harry have done, had he stood at his sister’s bed, her body pale and lifeless, like Ginny back when she was eleven, stumbling out of the Chamber of Secrets in a daze?_ Elyanna asks herself. _What would I do?_

The answer is as simple as it is damning. But it is not surprising.

[Harry, after all, has been a killer since long before the war ever started.]

*

"Elyanna!" Joffrey is startled by her appearance in his room, she can tell. He hastily puts the wooden sword away, like she could somehow miss him going through the motions in the middle of his outrageously large room. "You should be resting, sister."

"So everyone keeps telling me." Elyanna rolls her eyes. Even her parents seem to agree on that particular piece of advice. That in itself is a rare enough occurrence.

"They worry for you," Joffrey says, calm and insistent. He takes her hand, leads her towards his favorite seat, and Elyanna allows it, if only to ease his own mind. For now.

She hums. Lets her gaze glide over the smooth expression on her brother’s face like a gentle caress. He’s getting better at hiding his thoughts from her.

"And you?"

"_Me_?" Joffrey asks incredulously. Huffs out a laugh too harsh for his years.

[She forgets how young he is, sometimes. How young she is. This world is not a place for children.]

"You could’ve _died_, El. Someone came here, into our home, and _carved your face open_." Joffrey’s green eyes are alight, his thin voice trembling with righteous fury as his palms slam down in the table in front of him. His entire body shakes with the force of his rage, but his eyes remain dry and cold, as uncompromising a death sentence as the killing curse has always been.

He has never looked so much like a young Tom Riddle.

"Yet here I am, alive and well," Elyanna counters, unflinching in the force of Joffrey’s outburst. Reaches for her brother’s hand, entwines their fingers in a secure grip. "I am here, Joffrey. I’ve been for the past week as well. You were not.“

She squeezes his hand to soften the accusation.

Joffrey’s eyes narrow, the furrow between his eyebrows deepens. He looks much like their mother when she’s made up her mind and will not be moved, save for an order by the King himself.

"I was useless." Joffrey forces the words out between gritted teeth like they physically pain him. "I _am_ useless. I refuse to be so again."

"You weren’t useless!" Elyanna says sharply. "You were in no place to prevent what happened, nor would I have expected it of you. This-" she gestures towards her forehead, notes the way Joffrey’s gaze doesn’t follow the gesture, "-is neither your fault nor your responsibility. And killing yourself over it will accomplish nothing."

But the stubborn curve of Joffrey’s lips deepens, and it’s moments like these when Elyanna wishes her brother hadn’t inherited her bullheadedness.

"No," Elyanna continues before her brother has the chance to disagree, "you listen to me and listen carefully. _I_’m the one who got hurt. _I_’m the one who carries this scar. It’s _my_ experience. _My_ pain. You don’t get to make this about you, Joffrey. I am the only one with a right to assign the blame of these events. Don’t you dare try and take that from me." The last part is little more than a hiss.

"The one thing I blame you for is leaving me," Elyanna proclaims after a moment of silence.

Joffrey frowns, in offense this time. Good.

"Don’t waste your breath denying it, brother. I was trapped in the healing house for a week, am still confined to my chambers-" not that she’s currently there but that’s not the point, "and you haven’t visited me since that first day. Not once, Joffrey." Elyanna swallows, unable to keep the genuine hurt from her voice when she continues. "Even now you won’t look at me. Am I really that hideous? That you will not be seen with me anymore?"

"What?" Joffrey’s head, previously lowered, snaps up at that. "No! How could you think such a thing!"

"Well, what else am I supposed to think?"

"I _failed_ you. And I couldn’t bear— I had to do something about it. But that’s all there is to it. I will never leave you or be ashamed of you! You’re the most beautiful girl I know!" Joffrey snarls heatedly.

And really, Elyanna can’t not hug him.

It doesn’t surprise her in the slightest when, a few moments in, Joffrey suddenly pulls back to look at her with hard eyes and demands, "Who’s been calling you hideous? I’ll cut out the tongue of anyone who dares spread such foul lies!" like the overprotective idiot he is.

"You’d have no subjects able to talk in less than a week at that rate." Elyanna snorts, less bitter than she’d expected to be.

Joffrey’s eyes darken further but his tone is light when he asks deviously, "That would make open court less of an utter waste of time, don’t you think?"

Elyanna probably shouldn’t laugh at that. _Oh well_.

*

Despite what memories of her previous life might suggest, Elyanna rarely sneaks out of the Red Keep without permission. There’s a difference between exploring her castle and stealing herself away into the streets of King’s Landing. One is safe — -_ish_, as past events have shown them all — the other is like running with a pack of wild wolves — terrifying, likely to end with life-threatening injuries or worse and utterly exhilarating.

Elyanna has no illusions: Her mother would have all her guards hanged and lock her into a tower for the rest of her life if she knew about these occasional adventures her daughter undertakes. As a matter of fact, that has been Joffrey’s reaction as well, when he inevitably found out.

Luckily, her brother is much more likely to cede authority to her than her mother. Or maybe he is simply aware that she’d climb down any stupid tower they’d try to trap her in.

Still, she always takes care to only inform him of her outings after they’ve already taken place. Otherwise Joffrey would be tempted to set the Kingsguard on her, and that’s one bunch of armed, overprotective mother-hens she doesn’t need any more attention of than strictly necessary. It’s enough of a pain to lose Jaime as it is. Her uncle is an excellent knight, which is truly unfortunate when she wants to do things that go against Jaime’s sense of duty. Or his healthy fear of her mother’s wrath.

But with all the hovering and tiptoeing around her, Elyanna is in desperate need of a change of scenery. So she dons one of her former nursemaid’s old dresses, covers her skin with dust and ash, and takes one of the hidden passages towards the servant entrance of the keep. Her hair is kept wild around her shoulders, covering half of her face — and with it, her very distinctive scar — but she’ll have to find a better solution for that in the future.

Right now, though Elyanna can’t wait for that. Her skin feels itchy and every moment spent inside these stone walls is one moment too long. She needs to get out of here. Needs to breath fresh air — if the stink in the city near Flea Bottoms can count as such. But it’s still preferable to feeling the way she does right now, flushed and choking, about to lash out at the next person to suggest she sit down and look pretty while those more qualified do the real work.

Her feet carry her down the familiar path confidently. Elyanna even has a smile for Grull and Ratface, two of the servants she’s befriended as Ela. It’s a weak smile, but more real than she’s given anyone else in a fortnight.

Moving through the streets as Ela the kitchen girl from the keep is a very different experience from being lead through the city amidst armed guards cloaked in white and gold. Sometimes Elyanna feels as though she’s seeing two complete different cities that way. On other days, days like today, it’s not the city that feels different. It’s her, right down to her bones.

There’s a freedom to being Ela that has long forgotten tension in her shoulders relaxing. Makes it easier to breathe. Settles her, in ways that all the pretty gowns and dresses in the world fail to do.

[And if it makes her feel a bit more like she’s Harry, allows her to indulge in a fantasy that has no room in her new reality, that is a matter best left unaddressed. What is the point in missing something you can never have?]

"M’lady," Eon, leaning against the wall at his usual spot near the lower market place, tilts his head into the direction of her steps. "You’re back."

He always knows when she’s approaching, hasn’t ever given her the chance to announce herself. _You don’t smell_, he’d told her when Elyanna had finally given into her curiosity and asked. Unknowingly, the blind boy had reminded her of one of the most important lessons Harry had learned in another life: It’s not just the eyes you need to fool to pull off a perfect illusion. It’s the other senses as well.

"Eon," she greets him with an audible smile.

The scarf he’s got tied around his head is ripped and dusty, but the material is still recognizable as the one she gave him a couple of moons back.

"How are you?"

Eon smiles, a small, not quite honest, little thing. "Better than you, m’lady, or so it would seem."

At that, Elyanna can’t help but sigh. It’s terribly ungrateful of her, probably. But it’s also a statement of itself that a blind, crippled boy tells her this. She must sound even more tired than she imagined.

"We’re living in exciting times," is all she can think to say. [_The Potter Curse_, the cynical voice in the back of her mind whispers, mocking and assuring all at once.]

"Exciting times are dangerous times to be a princess," Eon notes. There’s no particular inflection in his voice, simply an observation. Elyanna takes it for a warning nonetheless.

[On her darker days, when the shadows of the Red Keep grow darker in the light of the fireplace and the world curves itself around her like a noose, Elyanna can hear the laughter of Princess Rhaenys, the soft cries of Prince Aegon, echoing in the hallways.

She’s asked about the fate of the wife of Prince Rhaegar exactly once, when her father was too deep into his cups to realize whom he was talking to. And even then, his eyes had shuttered, his face become drawn and bitter.

_War makes monsters of us all_, he’d growled and downed another cup of wine. Elyanna had taken it for the admission of guilt it was.]

"Exciting times are dangerous times for everyone," she counters, sidesteps the underlying tension that always accompanies her conversations with Eon with practiced ease.

"Do you have an answer for me?" Eon is the first one to break the comfortable silence between them.

Elyanna, who’s been eying the merchants throwing distrustful glances their way when they aren’t distracted by the good commoners of King’s Landing, startles. She hasn’t forgotten her last conversation with Eon. She never forgets anything he tells her — takes care to write it all down as soon as she’s back in her chambers — but when she isn’t careful and gets caught up in the moment, Elyanna forgets that they aren’t friends.

_What does the blind boy teach the princess?_ he’d asked her the last time she’d snuck away to visit him and told her not to return until she has an answer.

Elyanna — who’s been puzzling through convoluted plots of insane wannabe Dark Lords and over-complicated counter-schemes by her esteemed headmaster — has taken it as a challenge. Now she smirks at Eon. His eyes remain hidden by the stained, blue scarf, but she’s sure he’s quirking an eyebrow at her nonetheless.

"_To see_," she says simply.

Slow and devastating, Eon smiles.

*

One morning, two moons after Elyanna received her scar, she gets up as early as the sun rises. Dressed in an old linen dress, the closest thing to expendable clothes she owns, she sneaks into her brother’s quarters.

"What are you doing here?" Joffrey asks in between two yawns that threaten to split his face in half.

Things between them have settled, though not quite in the way they used to be. There’s an edge to her brother these days. A tendency to shift his weight, take a step in front of her when he perceives a threat. A watchfulness in his gaze. And much as Elyanna wishes to erase those manners, they will serve him well in the future — when he is king and, above all else, needs to protect _himself_.

[Elyanna has been the smallest, weakest boy among the children half her life. She’s been pushed around, mocked, beaten or ignored. She’s fought men trice her age and experience. Has won battles through luck, unexpected help and insane spur-of-the-moment decisions. Of course, no one had ever bothered to tell her that she was to be the one-man-army in the common war until it was far too late. This time will be different.]

Turning towards her brother with the gentle princess smile her mother’s been teaching her, Elyanna pulls her cloak aside, revealing two child-sized, wooden training swords.

"I want you to teach me."

*

"Father?" Elyanna stares at the large man, who’s walking back and forth in her private chamber like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

She’s fairly close to her father. Closer than her parents are, certainly, and though he gets on well with Joffrey, Elyanna is well-aware of the soft spot he has for her. It’s an open secret in King’s Landing that there’s nothing she wishes for that the King won’t see done. That said, she can’t remember the last time her father visited her in her own chambers. She must have still been a toddler at the time, at an age where people told you all the tales they could think of, knowing you are too young to understand them.

"You look much like her, you know," her father finally breaks the silence. He sounds contemplative. It’s an odd look on a man who delights in celebrations, bloodshed and entertainment of any other kind.

"Your eyes are your mothers, but the rest of you?" Father shakes his head. "Seeing you lay on that bed was like a step into the past, straight back to that day when Ned brought her body home. Unbroken, but lifeless all the same…"

He sighs, caught up in a memory he’s never learned to let go.

Elyanna opens her mouth. _Lay her ghost to rest, father_, she wants to say. _Or never find your peace_. But people rarely delight being told the truth when it’s not to their liking, and so what comes out instead is a question that’s been sitting at the back of her tongue for a long while, but never dared to climb towards the front while her mother was within earshot.

"What was she like?" Elyanna asks. "Lyanna Stark? What kind of person was she?"

At first, Elyanna thinks her father won’t answer at all. He’s unusually pale, the typical flush of a good night’s wine missing from his skin. Fingers drumming restlessly against his bulging stomach, a reminder of a softer life than most are afforded here.

"She was the most vibrant woman I had ever seen," her father begins after a long moment. He’s standing with his back to her now, gaze on the window and the world outside. Perhaps that makes it easier. "Everything, everyone paled in comparison to her. She was always brimming with ideas, plans and dreams, impossible though they might have seemed. Never had I ever met a woman so unshakeable in her conviction to walk her own path."

Elyanna sits down on her soft bed and lets the voice of her father wash over her as he continues. Allows herself to get lost in the tales of a curious girl as frustrated with the rules of their world as Elyanna often finds herself to be.

When her eyes drift away from her father’s shape — larger than it used to be, but smaller somehow, sunken into itself in a way she’s never seen before — for a moment, Elyanna sees her. Sees a pale girl with dark hair and uncompromising grey eyes, standing in the shadows of her father. A girl with wolf’s blood in her veins and the willingness to see a whole kingdom burn for the sake of her dreams.

Elyanna blinks and the girl is gone. Leaving her alone with the man who, even after all these years, still mourns her loss like it was yesterday, and the terrible realization that Lyanna Stark would have hated the life of a queen more than Elyanna’s own mother has grown to hate the king.

_Some deaths are tragic because they cut young lives too short, rob us of opportunities and chances not yet taken,_ Elyanna remembers somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. _But some fates are inevitable and that is a tragedy all of its own._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some brother-sister bonding, Robert's canon obsession with Lyanna, and a bit of Eon to get you through the rest of the week. You're welcome! :)  
Let me know what you think about the chapter and if there's any specific interaction you'd like to see in Elyanna's childhood years before we get to the pre-canon build-up! (And by that I mean Elyanna will be around nine when I count her childhood over and done with, let's not reflect too much on that part, shall we?)


	7. part vii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prophecies don't break for men.

_289 AC - 290 AC_

It quickly becomes obvious that Elyanna has no natural talent for sword fighting. Part of her difficulties may be blamed on the lack of a proper instructor — Joffrey may try his best, as he always does for her, but he is still a child himself and has much to learn — but it’s more than just that.

There’s an awkwardness to Elyanna when she holds her play sword. No matter how often Joffrey corrects her grip, it doesn’t feel right the way holding a broom stick did. And no matter how often Joffrey leads her through the correct footwork with uncharacteristic patience, her motions remain stiff and jerky.

["What with all your dance lessons, this really shouldn’t be so hard." Elyanna can hear her dear brother’s smirk in his voice. "_Shut up._"]

That is not to say Elyanna doesn’t improve. Because she does. Joffrey takes it as a personal offense when she doesn’t — She’s seen him repeat mistakes she knows she made in the training yard, just to later imitate Ser Barristan’s corrections on herself, and never let it be said that Joffrey isn’t commissioned to this secret mission she’s sworn him to. If Elyanna’d known all she had to do was play on his ridiculous protectiveness of her, she’d have done this years ago.

She has the basics down and feels fairly confident that she won’t accidentally stab herself, should she ever find herself in need of a real sword. But when comparing her own progress with Joffrey’s it’s very clear that she has no real aptitude for it — or passion, for that matter.

Ser Jaime would despair of her if he knew of her training, that’s for sure.

Once Joffrey even sneaks two real swords — they’re for practice, small enough for a child to hold, and not sharpened at that — from the armory. To give her a feel for the real thing, or so he claims.

It’s a good idea in theory. In practice, Elyanna is even worse at wielding metal than holding wood. And it’s hard to know for sure considering she has only her brother to compare to, but Elyanna suspects she lacks the necessary muscles to pull this off. She should work on that, probably. Clearly, sneaking off for an hour at most every few days is not sufficient.

[What he wouldn’t give for a time-turner. It would solve _so many_ problems. And the satisfaction of kicking all the over-confident squires’ arses at sword practice would be worth pulling a total Hermione.]

It’s Joffrey who eventually points out the obvious: That the effort they put into keeping her lessons going isn’t worth the meager improvements she makes anymore.

"Why don’t you keep on practicing the basics and we try again in a few years, when you’ve grown into your body a bit more?" he suggests.

It’s a hollow hope. A few years from now, Elyanna will flower and whatever freedom and choices she’s selfishly hoarding right now will be taken from her.

"A dagger would suit you more anyways," Joffrey continues. He must feel very bad indeed, to attempt to comfort her. Then again, the thought of her being alone and unable to defend herself has been known to drive him into a rage a time or two. Or any time he thinks of it, really.

"Maybe, but that’ll be of little use if there’s no one around to teach me."

Elyanna shrugs. Joffrey hasn’t learned to wield daggers yet — It’s not, strictly speaking, an honorable weapon, which, now that she thinks about it, is all the more reason to suggest to her mother that he really should learn it. Maybe she could get away with that as well. On the other hand, if Mother forbids it, she’ll watch Elyanna more closely. And that’s really something she’d like to avoid.

Suddenly, Joffrey’s frown clears. "I have an idea."

Which is how, several days later, Elyanna finds herself holding a slightly too large bow in her hands for the first time.

[_Your posture is terrible_, complains Joffrey. _Those arrows shouldn’t even fly!_

Elyanna grins and aims her next arrow right between the legs of the straw puppet they’ve built just because she can.]

*

When Jaime had seen Elyanna Baratheon for the first time, she’d been a wrinkled, pink-flushed, little thing, barely blinking its eyes open, and he’d been prepared to hate her. [He does.]

His beloved sister had placed her in his arms — at his insistence, no less — because she looked about ready to fall over. Her arms were shaking so hard, Jaime was legitimately concerned she would drop the child. Which would’ve likely gotten all three of them killed, though in vastly different ways.

"Cersei, you need to sleep," he’d told the pale ghost of his sister.

[She’d been thin, so thin, trembling, with ever-darkening bruises under her eyes. Unkindly, Jaime had thought that this child — and its dead brother — had sucked all the life out of his sister, as greedy and relentless as their no-good fool of a father. He’d hated them for that too.]

It’s rare for Jaime to raise his voice at his sister. They’ve always been like that, he the sword and Cersei the mind. Since his early childhood years at Casterly Rock there’s been whispers following them, of how his twin sister rules the Lannister heir. Not that Jaime cared. He still doesn’t. What do these people know of being born with half a soul? Cersei and Jaime are one, in all the ways that matter. Her words are his words, her actions his actions. And for every time he _yields_ to his sister’s thoughts and opinions, she _listens_ when he speaks.

She does so now as well, like he knew she would.

"Jaime, I…" Cersei’s voice breaks — and that’s another sin Jaime will lay at her child’s feet because his sister does _not_ break — her eyes glazed and far away, as though she’s still in the midst of birthing fever.

"Keep her safe, Jaime," his sister demands a moment later, remembers some of her old steel. There’s something cold in her eyes, at odds with the Lannister fire Jaime knows and loves so well. [Cersei never had much ice in her, but she’s been living in the shadow of a wolf for many moons now, and it shows.]

"Protect my daughter," she continues, green eyes fixed on him with an iron focus that would have bent a lesser man. "Swear it to me, brother. Swear it on _my_ life."

In that moment, Jaime more than ever before regrets that he still hasn’t learned to deny his twin. So he swears, knowing the Gods and his sister will hold him to this oath.

[He hates the child for that the most.]

After that first vow, it becomes easier and easier to repeat similar ones. His sister demands them often, crazed by fear and the circling vipers around her. Jaime is glad to have her trust, glad to share this burden with her. But more often than not, it leaves him with a bundle of a child in his arms, holding and feeding and comforting the sickly babe.

[_You should’ve been mine_, he thinks and hates himself most of all.]

It becomes easier to bear the child as Elyanna grows older. Or not easier perhaps but different. As the soft down on her head grows into wild, dark locks and her face loses its round cheeks, Jaime can see his sister in the girl. When her eyes turn a bright green, it becomes impossible to unsee it. Her hair and forehead are her fathers, and Jaime takes great pains not to think too much about that, but her eyes and cheekbones are undoubtedly Cersei’s.

A perfect mixture of the two people Jaime hates and loves the most. [And really, hatred doesn’t grow any sweeter with age.]

It doesn’t end in a matter as superficial as appearances either. Of course not. That would have been too simple. The Gods, Old or New, are many things, but on his side they are not. Some nights, Jaime allows himself to wonder whether they forsook him when he slew his king or when he fucked his sister. It wouldn’t change anything, though, so he tries not to let him bother him.

He’s still stuck in a world that knows no justice, with a kid that grins mischievously — like Cersei used to before their father trained it out of her — and growls like Robert when she’s angry. There’s parts of her he can almost love and parts that he loves to hate. And really, Jaime could’ve continued this infinitely. If his family — his time as a Kingsguard — has prepared him for anything, it’s to be loyal to people he despises.

But Elyanna Baratheon is five when she asks him why the people call him Kingslayer and Jaime is woefully unprepared for the soft "Oh. Why did you kill him?" he receives in response to his curt — always curt with her — answer. She’s but a child and Jaime has enough sense not to tell her the full story. But what he gives Elyanna is closer to the truth than what half the kingdom believes.

And though Jaime might not be the sharpest or even most dangerous of the Lannisters’, he’s sharp enough to notice that, after that day, Elyanna doesn’t call him Uncle Jaime anymore. She calls him Ser Jaime, like she wants to remind all the world and himself that Jaime is a knight even now, after all he’s done.

It’s been eight years and Jaime has a child with Cersei that he loves with all his heart — for all that the boy will damn them in one way or another — and the irony that he’s still closer to Elyanna out of the two of them is not lost on him.

He still loves the parts of her that are pure Cersei and hates the parts that scream Robert, but as the years pass those parts melt and wither, and what Jaime adores are the parts that are simply Elyanna.

[If there is any oath he’s sworn that Jaime truly hates, it’s the one he swore to Cersei’s true born daughter. There’s nothing more terrifying than a promise you’d rather die for than break.]

*

When Elyanna learns of her mother’s pregnancy — _Finally_, her mother’s ladies whisper under their breath, and really, is it in any way surprising that Mother keeps insisting that everyone around them is an enemy? — she’s ecstatic.

Joffrey is distinctly less so.

"We’ll have a little brother or sister to care for, to teach and play with. I would have thought you’d be happy?" she asks him in the privacy of his rooms.

[There’s no true privacy in the Red Keep, but their personal chambers come closest. Elyanna will take what she can get.]

The frown on Joffrey’s forehead deepens.

"What would I do with a brother?" he asks incredulously. "And I already have you, I don’t need anyone else. And you shouldn’t either."

The last part is said with the pouty undertone of a spoiled brat that she’s been trying to train out of him. It’s a work in progress.

"It’s not about need, Joffrey." She sighs.

Elyanna could try to explain the inherent joy she feels at seeing her family grow and prosper, at having one at all. But Joffrey wouldn’t understand that. Doesn’t understand it. She still doesn’t know whether that’s because Westeros’ concept of child-rearing is enough to give a social worker nightmares for the rest of their life or because there’s just— something wrong with him. She’ll never know for sure, so she figures it doesn’t really matter.

[The only thing that matters is the decision she made when Joffrey watched a boy break his arm with the most disturbing fascination she has ever seen on a face so young. That was the first time he’d reminded her of a young Tom Riddle. That was the moment where a part of her — a part that had been carefully cultivated and grown over an entire lifetime — realized that Joffrey had the potential to do more damage than Voldemort ever did. And that it would fall on her shoulders to kill him, should it come to that.

It was the moment a larger part of her — a part that has been shoved into cupboards and covered up bruises, that wrapped too skinny arms around himself in a mockery of a hug, that peered through key holes to catch a glimpse of what families should be like — remembered an old headmaster who deemed an eleven year old boy beyond saving.

Harry had loved Dumbledore, Elyanna knows, but he’d never forgiven the man. Neither has she.

And so, when she found herself crouched down besides Joffrey, all she could think was this: _If I don’t believe in him, I might as well kill him now and spare both of us the pretense. I either trust him or I don’t. Because if I can’t trust him to be better, he won’t ever trust me or anyone else. Himself least of all_.

That day, Elyanna Baratheon chose hope. That day, Harry Potter chose his brother.]

What matters is how she approaches the issue. After all, just because Joffrey lacks _something_ that Elyanna cautiously labels empathy, doesn’t mean her brother is stupid or incapable of rational thoughts. The emotional side of an argument rarely appeals to him, but Elyanna is good at working around that.

"A brother would be your heir, Joffrey. And I don’t mean that in a negative way," she hastily continues before he can see an enemy where there isn’t even a child yet, "I mean that it will stabilize your own rule, should something happen to father and you become king prematurely. We’re still young and you won’t have a son for many years. Knowing that the line of succession is secure is a security in itself."

Joffrey rubs the bridge of his nose in a way she’s fairly sure he’s copied from her. It’s kind of endearing. "Elyanna, if I’d be king, there’s no question that you’d be my heir." He says it with the long-suffering air of someone talking to complete moron.

Elyanna blinks, genuinely surprised for once.

"I’m a girl."

Joffrey raises his eyebrows. "I’m gonna be King."

Which, unfair though it sounds, is a good argument. Still. Best stop this madness before her brother becomes too fond with an idea that will win him no favor with the court when the time comes. Elyanna has little experience with the men of the small council, but she hears much from her mother. Most of all regarding the place of a woman in this world.

[It’s talk like that, more than anything else, that has her wondering whether she truly wants to rule one day. Her mother often talks about her future as a queen, but Harry already died for his people once and he doesn’t remember them being particularly grateful for it. Does he really want to live in the service of seven kingdoms for the rest of his life?]

"A brother still would strengthen your reign more than I could. And a sister would at least not weaken it." Elyanna reaches out and squeezes Joffrey’s hand gently. "You won’t lose me, brother. Not to an unborn sibling and certainly not to stupid court politics. You’re gonna be King and I’m gonna be Queen, remember?"

"I remember."

Joffrey still doesn’t look like he agrees with her, but he keeps a hold of her hand and for now that’s more than enough.

*

Cersei has never planned to seek out a wood witch — or indeed any witch at all. Not after that first time when she was but a child and saw what would become her greatest fear and nightmare in the hateful eyes of Maggy the Frog.

Yet here she is.

She hasn’t told Robert about her plans — not that he would miss her, should she never return — nor Jaime or her children. Has only allowed two loyal gold cloaks to accompany her, as they often do on regular outings. While rare, they are not uncommon, and Cersei is confident her disappearance will be dismissed, so long as she returns within a reasonable timeframe.

Reason — and Jaime — have told Cersei again and again that she allow her life to be defined by a prophecy. Look how that turned out for Rhaegar Targaryan, after all.

[But Cersei has killed for this prophecy before Jaime was old enough to bloody his sword and she cannot, _will not_ let this matter go.]

Three children have been promised to her and one hand rests on her stomach, where she is just beginning to feel her third, Cersei feels assured once more that she has drawn out this visit for long enough. Too long maybe.

_Gold shall be their crowns_, Maggy had told her once, half a lifetime ago.

Yet there is Elyanna, her oldest, most beloved daughter, who’s skin grows paler and who’s hair grows darker with every passing year. Cersei fears she will go mad for real, will be spoken of in the same light as the Mad King one day, if she doesn’t get to the bottom of this.

So here she is, once more to ask a wood witch about her future — and, more importantly these days, the future of her children.

"Wait here," she commands the guards in front of the unassuming hut. Thankfully, they both know better than to argue. There will be no witnesses for what she is about to ask, of that Cersei is going to make sure.

The wood witch doesn’t look like Maggy, with her old, weathered skin, her thin, colorless hair and her golden eyes. But she has the same look that girl gave her all those years ago, and Cersei can’t help but think that no matter how much they look at her like she’s utter scum beneath them, it’s them who are truly cursed.

The witch wants neither blood nor gold, which does nothing to soothe Cersei’s worries. She smiles instead, teeth white and sharp. "I ask for nothing, girl, because you’ve come for nothing. There is no prophecy."

Something — _everything_ — inside Cersei eases at the confirmation. "I was lied to then?" she asks more out of curiosity than anger. It will come later, certainly, but it pales in light of the relief she feels that this terrible, bleak picture Maggy once painted may not become her future after all.

The old witch snorts, though whether she’s disgusted with her or with her question Cersei doesn’t know. "Do you feel lied to?" she asks all too knowingly.

"A prophecy was made and a prophecy was broken. Does this comfort you? Because it shouldn't." The wood witch clicks her tongue as ifto reprimand her. There’s a cruel glimmer in her eyes and yes, there’s no doubt that these creatures are cursed as much — if not more so — than Cersei ever has been.

As if she can hear her spiteful thought, the witch laughs. A raspy, breathless sound that holds no joy, only mockery and damnation.

"You nobles and your petty delusions. A bunch of jealously squabbling children, that’s all you are. No, _your Grace_, don’t you get too comfortable on that cutthroat throne of yours. Prophecies don’t break for men and even your family can’t buy the favor of the Gods."

*

"Mother?" Elyanna asks, startles her mother despite her soft voice. "Are you alright?"

Her mother has been pale and easily distracted these past days, and Elyanna worries that this is the first sign of the start of something terrible. [After all, they’d hardly tell a little girl if the realm was in trouble, would they?]

"No, no, my dear girl," her mother pacifies immediately. Smoothes the wrinkles on her forehead smooth out with practiced ease. "Forgive me. I was just lost in thoughts."

One day, Elyanna hopes she’ll be able to lie like that.

Then suddenly her mother is by her side, pulls Elyanna into her arms. The hug is comforting and familiar, and Elyanna relaxes into it without a single moment of hesitation.

"Don’t you worry, my sweetling." Her mother strokes a gentle hand through her ever-wild hair. "You are a blessing and blessed in equal turns, Elyanna." Serious eyes as green as her own hold her gaze. "Never forget that."

"I won’t," Elyanna promises, though she isn’t entirely sure what her mother is asking.

"I know." Finally, her mother’s fierce expression softens into a genuine smile. "I won’t let you."

Her mother lets the words linger between them for a moment, before she slowly pulls back. Takes Elyanna’s hands into her own instead.

"Now run along and prepare for bed. Let peace find you in your sleep tonight, my sweet." Mother presses a warm, barely felt kiss against the still-red scar on her forehead. "All is well."

And for tonight, at least, it is.

*

Harry Potter is raised in a house filled with love by people unwilling to share it with him. He is raised in the dusty corners, alone and forgotten, to be returned into the light at the world’s convenience.

[He is raised in a house prided for its courage, not its loyalty, and perhaps that is the most grievous error of them all.]

He is raised with friends who are human and fallible, to step into the shoes of his parents who are heroes remembered only in gold and glory. He is raised to die. And for all the times the world failed him, he is not raised to fail them. He is raised to do the impossible and so he does.

[What do you do, when you witness the rise of a legend? You tell the story. You end the story.]

For Harry Potter is the hero of his people. He is hope, he is faith, he is light that will never cede to darkness. Above all else, he is the Boy Who Lived. And like his name, title, destiny implies, he never gets the chance to grow up.

["Did he say anything? Before— Before." A young woman with a too-deep frown for her years and wild, brown hair will ask a blonde beauty with silvery eyes, one day, far off into the future. When old wounds have scabbed over enough to poke them, though they never healed quite right.

"You owe me," the other woman says after a long moment of silence. She doesn’t sound sad anymore, but the bitterness still prevails. "That’s all he said. _You owe me_. He was right."]

Elyanna Baratheon does.

She grows up with her father's deep-seated love for the wild and untamed North. She grows up with her mother's cunning machinations to rule a world owned by men.

[She grows up with a father who rages and fucks and drinks too much, who breaks everything in his vicinity but her. She grows up with a mother who jealously guards and shelters her and who hates and despises every part of her life that isn't her precious children.]

Elyanna — like all children — grows up to be so much more than the sum of her parents' parts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand that officially concludes Elyanna's childhood. Not in the sense that she'll be an adult in the next chapter, but we'll focus on some actual plot developments now and Elyanna is about to get a quick introduction with All That Is Wrong With Westeros (And Potentially Her Family) veeery soon.  
Regarding her magic (because I know some of you are wondering): The issue will be addressed. Soon. Believe me, you can't miss it when it happens.  
Any thoughts about this chapter? I tried to give you some more insight in the Lannisters, particularly Jaime and Joffrey. Also I didn't know about the prophecy Cersei received because I haven't reached those canon events yet, but it fit perfectly into a subplot I've planned, so here we are, addressing the issue like the mature people we pretend to be. Please let me know what you think!  
(I'm sorry for the lack of Robb btw. Maybe I need to add a slowburn tag lol)


	8. part viii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What does it say about this throne that every ruling family keeps monsters by their side?_

_290 AC - 291 AC_

The birth of Myrcella Baratheon is a blessing in many ways. Elyanna hadn't realized how present her mother is in her life — ever watchful, ever watching over _her_ — until suddenly there's another tiny babe placed in her arms that needs her more than Elyanna.

Now, suddenly Elyanna finds herself with free evenings where her mother used to sit by her side, tell her stories and keep an eye on her stitches. Her days are still filled with lessons, but escaping Septa Barba takes less effort. Besides Elyanna learns quickly that her lessons still leave her with much room to breathe, now that her mother isn't here to insist they add another hour and another.

It's a mean thought, probably, but for all that Elyanna misses her mother — it's never easy to be set aside — she's glad for the breathing room it gives her. There's something suffocating about the Red Keep, always has been. Something Elyanna has only noticed once she's begun sneaking out into the city, where the pressure on her shoulders inexplicably eases and she settles within her skin. Those feelings aren't gone with Mother, but her absence gives Elyanna more opportunities to slip away and get lost in the crowds of King's Landing. Which amounts to the same thing and is just another reason why Joffrey is less than impressed with their newest addition to the family.

All his jealousy does, though, is convince Elyanna that a sibling will be good for him. He's clearly been the baby of the family for too long. And Elyanna won't be around forever to remind him that as much as he may enjoy watching the flames, even a King needs more than ashes to rule over in the end.

The Mad King had forgotten that lesson. And look where it got him. If Elyanna was the type to place her faith in Gods, she'd be convinced that that particular Targaryan is burning in the Seven Hells now — and probably still believes he will rise from the flames and return a dragon. He hasn't though and he never will.

The dragons have been dead for a long time.

[It breaks her heart and eases her soul at the same time. Because Harry— Harry isn't ready to confront what he's lost yet.]

In Joffrey's defense though, he is right about one thing: Their mother is obsessed with their new sister. She refuses wet nurses, insists to take care of the child by herself. Allows only her handmaiden and Ser Jaime close. That in itself isn't so unusual. [And really, Elyanna still thinks wet nurses are way odder than a mother feeding her child herself, but she supposes she can understand how it might get in the way if you're a Queen — another issue to consider at a time when the future doesn't feel so terribly far off anymore.]

What is unusual is how Mother disregards not just the court and the small council meetings — _"You may not speak up, my darling. In fact, it's better if you don't. But you must attend and take note of the ones who speak and of what they do and do not say. Therein lies the true power of a queen: To be invisible in a room filled with the men fancying themselves our rulers._" — but fails to attend to Joffrey and Elyanna both. Fails to allow Joffrey and Elyanna access to their sister too, in those first moons, when Myrcella catches a fever.

"The young princess is in the hand of the Gods now," Maester Colmar tells them in a kind voice. "There is nothing more we can do but pray and wait."

Joffrey scoffs, but Elyanna stamps on his foot and he doesn't say anything.

[Her brother doesn't believe in the Gods. Elyanna isn't sure where he picked that up. He's been half-raised by Septa Barba when he was younger and shared her lessons and Maester Colmar is teaching him now. Yet her brother only ever rolls his eyes at any mentions of the Seven. She hopes he'll grow more discreet as he grows older, for the Faith is its own force and Elyanna has never known people to be rational when it comes to defending their beliefs.]

"We will, of course." She smiles sweetly, like the obedient daughter she is. Like the lie her mother taught her to uphold. "Come, brother." Elyanna takes hold of Joffrey's arm — and for all that appearances must be kept, it's not a gentle grip by far. "Let us visit the Sept and pray for your sister's continued good health."

They do, despite Joffrey's clear reluctance. He wouldn't deny her, not her, and certainly not for something so terribly inconsequential.

"Who are we even supposed to pray to?" he murmurs all the same, annoyance and frustration leaking through his carefully constructed composure. He's better at that already than a blonde boy Elyanna used to know, with lips that were meant for smiling not sneering. "What do the Gods care for us? What use is wailing to the Seven about our pitiful, unimportant woes?"

His conviction that the Gods are merciless, Elyanna is happy to blame on their mother. But the bitter contempt, directed mostly at himself, that follows it? That Elyanna takes full credit for. For better or worse, she's what Ginny Weasley in another life would've called a _cynical bitch_, and it's rubbed off on her brother more than either of them care to acknowledge.

"What harm can it do?" Elyanna counters, mindful of the ever-listening ears. Her mother and Mad-Eye Moody would have gotten on famously and that is a terrifying image if there ever was one. "It's important to be seen, Joffrey. Seen praying, seen caring, seen paying attention. In the end, the people — your future subjects — will only know of you only through rumors and whispers and the brief moments when you're standing in front of a crowd, looking down on them. That's why these moments matter because they are the only times they see you. They are the only impressions you can decide on for yourself. All the rest of your reputation will be built on gossip, lies and myths. And you know how the saying goes."

"A good king's men will die for him," Joffrey repeats the mantra she's told him since she first caught him throwing small rocks at a frightened maid and he asked her why he shouldn't do with her as he pleased.

"—a great king's men will fight to see him live another day," Elyanna finishes the adage with a bitter smile.

[She'd learned that the hard way once. Too little, too late of course. By the time Harry had known enough to make use of _his_ reputation, he'd been Undesirable Number 1 and respect and honor had no longer been an option. Fear had been. But.

_Nothing built on fear will last_, Ron had warned him. He'd been right. And he'd thrown himself between Harry and his executioner all the same.]

"_Fine_." Joffrey sighs, like the exasperated eight year old boy he is. Like he's humoring her. "Let's please the smallfolk."

Elyanna pats his arm patronizingly. "Let's."

*

King's Landing is set atwitter by a sighting of the sweet princess with a too-kind heart and her well-mannered brother, who is faithful and leads her like a born Lord already, despite his young age.

_The King's rule has been blessed_, the whispers say, and none are too terribly surprised when the news come that Princess Myrcella's fever has passed and she will soon be officially introduced to the court. _The Seven favor the Baratheons'_.

"Horse shit if I've ever heard it," a fisher's wife snorts as she pushes her heavy cart impatiently through the crowded city streets towards the harbor. She doesn't spare the scrambling cripple — who almost loses his second foot to her cart — a second glance.

"Aye," her eldest daughter agrees with a troubled look. "The Seven favor many and change their minds just as quick. But the Old Gods—"

"The Old Gods are dead." The older woman cuts in, voice sharper than the blades of the soldiers manning the city gates. "You should no better than to speak of them." The _here_ goes unsaid, but from the way her daughter's lips thin, she understands just fine.

*

The Hound is a beast of a man.

Elyanna has heard the name _Clegane_ uttered many times before, sometimes in awe, always accompanied by fear and contempt. She is young, but not that young, and men talk when they're deep enough into their cups. [And they always are before they dare to broach the subject of the Clegane brothers, and the Mountain most of all.] She knows far more about the crimes committed to the family that ruled these halls before her than she ever wished to know.

_They could've had the decency to at least give her a quick, clean death_, Elyanna remembers thinking the first time she had learned the extend of Elia Martell's fate. But decency is a currency King's Landing is constantly running out of — and it shows.

She'd felt pity then. For the woman who'd been set aside by her husband for another. For the innocent who had become just another causality in the Great War, who had payed for a stupid man's mistake.

_"Don't pity her_," Mother had told her quietly, with the edge of someone who's broken pieces are sharp enough to cut straight to the bone. "_Learn from her mistake. You're never too young to pay for another's folly, Elyanna. Especially not a man's folly_."

Elyanna also knows that both Clegane men are in her family's service — or in her grandfather's service at least. Though considering her grandfather saw it fit to murder the last royal family, that's not exactly a comfort. He did it to get her family on the throne. Which excuses nothing, but at least makes Elyanna hopeful that she won't be next any time soon.

Still. If it had been the Mountain—

If it had been the Mountain, Elyanna might have had to arrange an accident. She's not one hundred percent sure [there's use for loyal monsters, particularly here in Westeros, and she hates that she understands that] but it would have been an option.

As it is, it's the Hound her grandfather has sent to _make himself useful_, as the man himself puts it. Sandor Clegane is a vile man, no doubt about that, but he didn't butcher a bunch of children. He also got half his face melted off by his brother, so Elyanna thinks he's got more reason than most in this city to be a miserable asshole. A miserable asshole that is strong, can fight and doesn't sprout utter bullshit just to bolster someone's ego.

With her mother still focused on Myrcella and Myrcella alone ["She was even worse with you," Ser Jaime snorts, but Elyanna has a hard time imagining _that_] there is no one to protest when Elyanna asks for a private audience with her father.

"The Hound is a fine fighter," _killer_, she means, but in Westeros that's about the same thing, "but I don't think there's much use in having him patrol the city walls."

Her father, thankfully only just starting on his second wine, appears amused. He usually is, with her. "And what do you think would be a more useful position for him?"

"Well, Joffrey's eight name day is a week from now," Elyanna starts and ignores her father's clear surprise. He's not known to pay much attention to Joffrey's name day — or any name day, apart from hers.

[Last year, he'd gifted her a beautifully decorated dagger. A small, thin blade, easily hidden in her sleeves or the layers of her dress. "Can't be a proper wolf without teeth," he'd grunted. The gift had been so thoughtful and he'd looked so genuinely proud of the way her fingers had traced the blade before she flipped it over in a practiced grip, that she hadn't thought to remind him that she is no wolf. Most days, it's better not to mention the lion's blood in her veins.

Then, as though the mere thought had nudged his memory, her father's face had darkened. "Don't tell your mother," he'd ordered. "The woman's got the good sense the Seven gave a fly when it comes to the things girls need to know."

And maybe Elyanna should've spoken up. Maybe she should've defended her mother. But she's tired of being pulled into battles that aren't hers to fight, so she kept quiet and didn't tell her father about the long, thin hair pins, hard and sharp enough to cut a grown man's throat, that her mother had gifted her hours previously. _Don't tell anyone, and especially don't tell your father_, had been her exact words.

They are so similar sometimes it makes Elyanna want to cry.]

"So I thought maybe you could swear Clegane into Joffrey's service as a present. It's high time the heir to the throne gets a sworn sword, don't you think? After all, I have Ser Jaime. It's only right that Joffrey receives the same protection."

As expected, her father doesn't put up much of a fight.

Joffrey, too, isn't at all put off by the thought of a personal servant.

"Just remember," Elyanna warns him the day before the ceremony, "how you treat him will decide his loyalty, more than any vow Mother and Father could make him swear."

"I know, I know." Joffrey rolls his eyes and adjusts her grip on her bow, presses her shoulder down a bit. "You've only been telling me that all my life."

Which, fair point.

It appears the time has finally come to see if any of her lessons and advice have stuck or if Joffrey is only humoring her. After all, if you want to see a man's true character, give him power, isn't that how the saying goes? Soon enough, Joffrey will have to prove himself through his actions.

Elyanna likes to think she has faith in her brother, but her stomach feels like its made of lead all the same.

_What a pair we make_, she thinks with equal amounts of anticipation and wariness, as Clegane swears himself to her brother. _The prince and the princess with the Hound and the Kingslayer by their side_. _What does it say about this throne that every ruling family keeps monsters by their side?_

*

It's been many moons since Elyanna has last seen Eon. In her defense: she's been busy. Septa Barba has stepped up her lessons (again), she's been practicing the bow relentlessly with Joffrey's help every chance she got, and there's been her mother and baby sister to worry about.

Now that Myrcella's recovering — and Mother isn't ready to let her out of her sight yet — is the perfect time to remedy this oversight.

Her brother won't be pleased, but he never is when Elyanna consorts with the peasants. To be fair, the older she gets, the more dangerous it will be. Which really just means that Elyanna plans to make full use of her current liberties for as long as possible.

"M'lady." Eon greets her, seated in the same corner she always finds him. He never calls her princess. Of course, there wouldn't be much point to coming in disguise if he did.

Elyanna takes a moment to study him as she slowly sinks down onto the uncomfortably hot, dirty stone besides him. His hair is longer than it used to be, though it's kept in place by the bandage around his face. As always, her stupidly curious fingers itch to pull the fabric off. Elyanna suppresses the desire like she always does.

"Eon."

_It's been a while_, she could say. It might be true, but Eon isn't one to speak idly. Elyanna has no desire to annoy him by stating the obvious, after all the time it took her to find her way back here.

"Do you have your answer?" Eon asks eventually.

Irritating as it is, Elyanna can feel her shoulders' slump in response. He probably feels the sagging motion against his side, the air of defeat around her. Still. She owes him an answer and maybe it's the Lannister blood in her, but Elyanna hates owing a debt.

"No," she says honestly.

Eon shakes his head minutely. It's difficult to read a half-covered facial expression, but not difficult enough to miss his obvious displeasure. "I can't help you find it," Eon says, voice firm. "Nor should you have returned without one."

"I'm not asking you to."

Eon likes his games too much to adjust the rules, even just a little. It's not necessarily a bad thing, although every now and then Elyanna gets tired of them. At least Eon is open about his games. Elyanna is by no means naive enough to think he's the only one playing them — and most others aren't nearly as upfront about it.

Leaning over as though to brush the dust from Eon's worn-out tunic — a hopeless endeavor if there ever was one — she uses the gesture to sneak two gold coins into his palm.

"But I was bored and I miss you." She shrugs, the motion heavy enough to be felt by the boy at her side. Who's tilting his head in an unspoken question at her. "You're my friend," Elyanna elaborates when it becomes clear that Eon doesn't _get_ _it_.

Eon twitches, as though aborting some movement before it even starts. "Princesses don't have friends."

A reminder for the both of them, perhaps.

"I'm not a princess," Elyanna says softly because that's better than _You remind me of my mother_.

"You are."

There's no judgement or condemnation in Eon's tone, but the words feel like they're slamming shut a metal door between the two of them all the same. Elyanna doesn't insult either of them by arguing. It's not just a pretty lie though.

Some days — days like today — the name Elyanna Baratheon feels like too small a description to fully capture her. A shell stretched out to its limits and still she feels herself yearning to expand beyond even that. Today, she is a princess but not, is Elyanna but not, and that's why she's here, isn't it?

Because the last time she saw Eon, he asked her _What's the difference between rebirth and reincarnation?_

[Elyanna had furrowed her eyebrows and asked him if those two words weren't exactly the same thing and Eon had raised his eyebrows so high they were visible over the shawl covering his eyes.

_Are they?_ he'd asked her, like he didn't know that those words had vines made of iron wrapping themselves around Elyanna's lungs and _squeezing_.

But it had taken until Elyanna was already back in the keep and almost walking straight into a wall to realize— _Me_. _That's me._]

She hasn't found an answer yet. Hasn't even started to look. In those rare moments when Elyanna makes herself remember the question she thinks maybe, maybe I don't want to know. Why Eon thought to ask her this of all the possible questions he could've asked. Why she knows, deep within her bones, that he's right: There's a difference. And it _matters_.

"I should go," Elyanna says, her voice sounding very far away, almost like she's hearing it through rushing water. Oh. That might be her heart pounding in her ears.

"M'lady." Eon reaches out, quick as a snake, to grasp her arm with a sureness few people would expect from a blind boy.

The touch freezes Elyanna in place — she can count on one hand the number of times Eon has reached for her and still come up with several fingers left over — and she finds herself staring at him, at the dirty cloak covering his eyes, breathless and confused and tired of it all.

[There's no escaping the poisonous games of the Red Keep, not even here, is there?]

"You don't give hints."

"I don't," Eon agrees, lightly but unshakeable.

_We're all liars here_, her mother whispers into her ear late at night, a bedtime story for a child too young to understand.

Eon leans in and draws her closer by his grip on her forearm at the same time, until she can smell the stench on him, the sweat, the misery, can feel the scratchy fabric of his blindfold against her cheek, his lips a breath away from touching her earlobe.

"_Valar morghulis._"

*

The moment Elyanna runs into the first gold cloak back in the Red Keep, she's immediately escorted to Maester Colmar's quarters.

Elyanna has never been particularly close to the maester. He's a nice enough man, she supposes. Certainly has a warm, soothing voice that helps you stay calm and is well-learned in what passes for medicine in this life.

Of course, she mostly sees him when she's gotten sick again and her mother flutters around her like a panicking grizzly bear on the prowl — or a lioness as the case may be — because her lessons are usually held by Septa Barba. Joffrey's never complained about the man though — has even admitted that the maester is very intelligent. No small compliment from the likes of her brother.

Still.

It's a shame that the man is dying.

Not that Elyanna is about to break down in tears any time soon — Maester Colmar is old, older than most people she knows, and it's not like he's suffering from a particularly vile or painful disease.

_Sometimes the body may tire before the mind is ready to let go_, as Septa Barba put it the other day.

Personally, Elyanna had thought it kind of nice to know that it's coming, to have the chance to get your affairs in order and say your goodbyes. But that's a sentiment from a softer world [a world that had a seventeen-year-old boy march to his death, out of options and alone, with only the dead for company, and he should be over it by now, perhaps, but he's still so _angry_—]. She just hadn't expected those goodbyes to include her.

Apparently though, Maester Colmar has asked for her and since it's not certain if he'll make it through the night, she's brought to him in utmost haste. Elyanna doesn't mind. Even if she doesn't understand what he could possibly want, who is she to deny a dying man's request?

Jaime — who sends her a glance that indicates they'll have words about her disappearance afterwards — steps into the small, orderly quarters after her. Maester Colmar is propped up on his bed, his prone body covered in linen sheets. He's holding a quill, in the middle of writing a letter it appears and for a moment Elyanna remembers Hermione's crushing hug, Ron's tear-filled eyes.

["_I'll go with you._"

"_Just— kill the snake. Kill the snake and then it's just him_."]

"Maester Colmar," Elyanna gets out somehow. "You've asked to see me?"

"Thank you for indulging my request, Princess Elyanna." The old man turns towards her with a smile. "I apologize for the improper attire, but I'm afraid I have to save my strength where I can."

His voice is as warm as she remembers and Elyanna finds herself swallowing hard at the realization that she'll miss him.

"May I ask for a moment of privacy with the princess?" Maester Colmar asks and though the words are soft, the look he bestows upon Ser Jaime makes it clear that it's not a suggestion.

Her sworn sword hesitates, of course, but Elyanna waves him off. Of all the people in this castle, Maester Colmar had probably the most and best opportunities to hurt her. She doubts he'll use his last few moments to murder a princess who isn't even first in line for the throne.

Ser Jaime isn't happy with her decision, that much is clear. But he never is and Elyanna genuinely doesn't understand where he's picked up the overprotectiveness. It's like it's contagious.

Maester Colmar waits patiently and only speaks up again once the door has fallen shut behind Ser Jaime. His voice is even softer now, barely audible in the small room.

"I'm afraid there is something you must know, young princess. And though I do not wish to bind you through a promise or a vow, I ask that you keep what I shall tell you to yourself," Maester Colmar says, suddenly looking much, much older and more weighted down than just a few moments before.

Elyanna hesitates for only a moment. "I will do my best."

"That is more than I could ask for." Maester Colmar inclines his head in acknowledgement, and Elyanna doesn't think she's imagining the affection warming his eyes. "Sweet child, I have served the royal family for many years and always have I stood in faithful service to the crown. Whatever else you doubt, I ask you not to doubt my loyalty, not to the King, nor to your own family."

And, well. That's not exactly a promising start.

The maester's face is serious now, uncompromising, like when he refused entrance to Joffrey into the birthing quarters after Myrcella fell sick. His voice is even quieter now — not brittle or weak, but consciously softened into barely a breath.

"But not all maesters serve their House first, young princess. And who ever comes after me, you _cannot_ trust."

The gravity of the man's expression settles on Elyanna's shoulders like a leaden blanket. The weight of it a physical ache. She doesn't know what to say to that, how to react. It feels like a monumental revelation, but also like she isn't grasping the full meaning of what the maester is trying to tell her.

Maester Colmar pulls a stack of bound paper out from under his covers and carefully, with a shaking hand, holds them out to her.

"Take these, princess," he murmurs. "Take them with you. Don't let anyone see what they contain, don't leave them lying around for someone to find, don't give anyone a chance to get a hold of them. Take them and burn them all."

Mind racing, Elyanna accepts the paper. She swallows down her questions — Why not burn them yourself? What do they contain? What are you afraid someone will find? Who are you afraid will find it? Why _me_? — and folds the paper up instead, to hide it inside her dress.

"I don't understand." She can't remember the last time she sounded so much like the child she isn't anymore.

Maester Colmar's tight expression lightens, just a bit. "I know." And he has the gall to sound so terribly, terribly amused. "It's been an honor serving you, Princess Elyanna of House Baratheon."

And despite everything, this isn't about her, not really. It's about an old man in his dying moments, putting a few more ghosts to rest. So Elyanna swallows against the uncomfortable pressure in the back of her throat and she blinks away the burning sensation in her eyes.

"Thank you for your service, Maester Colmar," she says, even and honest. "I'm glad to have known you."

It's not the worst last words she's ever exchanged with someone she's cared for. Nor the least helpful.

The next morning, when Sister Barba tells her and Joffrey that Maester Colmar has been visited by the Stranger this night, Elyanna thinks of the questions she meant to ask the maester before they got sidetracked by his eery warnings — thinks of the untouched parchment she has hidden away in a crease behind her fireplace and two words that send cold shivers down her spine. Thinks _It'll have to be enough_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who had no idea what I meant regarding Eon's role a few chapters previously, this might give you a hint ;) As promises, we're getting the plot rolling now, plus Sandor finally shows up (he was meant to be in the last chapter, actually, but I completely forgot, so.)  
Anyone has an idea of what the answer to Eon's question (_What's the difference between rebirth and reincarnation?_) might be? Suspicions regarding Maester Colmar? Ideas what's going to happen next? I'd love to hear what you think about this chapter!


	9. part ix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Beliefs don't _die_."

_291 AC_

Elyanna spends half her lesson on the Great Houses of Westeros — Really, how often does she have to repeat those stupid words? And who even cares? Is she really supposed to trust that anyone she meets will hold themselves to their words? And even if she were stupid enough to assume that a person is made only by the house they’re born into, what do some of them even mean? _Growing Strong_? _Winter Is Coming_? She’s not even sure what to do with _Ours Is The Fury_ and those are her words — contemplating how to best pose the question that’s been bothering her since Eon whispered those stupid, trice-damned words into her ear.

Well, no. That’s not quite the truth and Elyanna is trying to be honest with herself. It’s hard enough to keep track of everyone else’s lies, she doesn’t need those nets of tangled excuses inside her own mind on top of that.

The truth is, when Elyanna was about four, she’d asked Sister Barba — and anyone else around her — about magic.

["Where are the dragons?" she blurts out because she remembers flying on one’s back not long ago. She can still hear the sound the crumbling chains made when they released the beast, hear its roar ringing in her ears.

Uncle Jaime trips over nothing, his usually jovial face paling rapidly. It’s as far from Charlie’s enthusiasm about his work as you can get and catches Elyanna entirely off-guard.

"Dead," Uncle Jaime croaks out. "The dragons are dead."

"Oh." That doesn’t sound right. "All of them?"

Uncle Jaime’s staring at her now, but he doesn’t look like he sees her at all.

"All of them."]

"Magic has been leaving these shores for centuries," is the answer Sister Barba gave her back then. She’d said it kindly, like she knew she was stamping out a child’s dream and was sorry for the pain it’d cause her. Not everyone who repeated the same sentiment after her has given Elyanna the same courtesy.

Elyanna knows they’re lying. Or maybe not lying, exactly, not when they truly believe what they are saying. But they’re still _wrong_. Adults often are. Though how they don’t see it — _feel_ it — Elyanna will never understand.

["But what about the Old Gods?" Elyanna asks Sister Barba after they’ve finished the Seven Faces of the One God. She’s heard enough stories about the North from her father to know that they do things differently there. Worship different gods.

"The Old Gods?" Sister Barba gives her a confused look and despite her age, she looks painfully young in that moment. "Dear child, the Old Gods have been dead and gone for longer than I’ve been alive. Only the far Northern lands even remember their names anymore."

And— Elyanna stares. Speechless in the face of such, such— blatant idiocy.

"What’s wrong?" Joffrey whispers as soon as Sister Barba’s back is turned.

"N-Nothing." Elyanna shakes her head. Shoots the Septa another disbelieving glance. "It’s just— Gods can be forgotten, but they can’t be killed. And beliefs don’t _die_."]

Sister Barba is still going on about House Martell — who’s words are _Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken_, and that at least is a mantra Elyanna can get behind — but Elyanna really doesn’t care for Dorne.

[There’d been talk of a potential match between her and Prince Quentyn who’s around her age and wouldn’t it just be the perfect opportunity. In a rare show of unity, her mother had almost ripped out Littlefinger’s throat with her bare hands— Elyanna caught a glance at the bruises before she was ushered away — while her father had drenched the rest of his council in red wine — Dornish, ironically — when he’d thrown it over the table in his rage.

"My Lyanna will _not_ be the next Elia Martell!" he’d roared. That was the first and last time that Elyanna’s ever been asked to join a Small Council meeting. The first and last time her marriage prospects have been discussed too — within earshot of her parents at least.

It’s probably a good thing her parents’ marriage is a sham. There’s no telling what the two of them would accomplish if they’d work together instead of tearing each other down.

_Hey, at least I can joke about it now, right?_]

"I have a question."

"Yes, Princess Elyanna?" There’s no denying the exasperation thickening Sister Barba’s voice.

The poor woman knows her well enough to realize that it has nothing to do with the knowledge she’s trying to impart. Elyanna would feel bad for her, but if they’d taught her interesting things, maybe these lessons wouldn’t be such a pain to get through.

"It’s just, I’ve been studying the Houses of Westeros for a really long time now." Too long, if you ask her — which, incidentally, no one does. "But the other day I heard a— a _phrase_. It must have been a House’s words, I can’t think of anything else that it could be, but I’ve never heard them before."

"And what were those words?" Sister Barba raises her eyebrows in the universal _Get on with it_, _girl_ sign teachers all around the universe perfect at some point.

Elyanna— hesitates. For a single moment.

[There’s a reason people don’t say the name _Voldemort_ lightly, and it goes beyond the taboo he enforced during the Second War. There’s a reason arrogant, overconfident teenagers don’t shout _Avada Kedavra_ and _Crucio_ at each other in the hallways.

You need more than just the words to use the curse, it’s true. A wave of your wand is nothing without the intent backing it up, nothing without the call for blood singing in your veins. No one, not even the Dark Lord himself, can cast an Unforgiveable wandlessly.

And yet.

Magic knows no empty titles or meaningless myths. There lies power in a name. And in some cases, when the words themselves are tied too closely to the magic they hold, become too entwined to be properly torn apart, they become a magic — a _curse_ — all on their own.]

"_Valar morghulis_," Elyanna repeats, carefully enunciates the unfamiliar words. Feels that shiver of _dreaddelightcoldpower_ race down her spine and dissipate in the ground beneath her feet.

No, these are no meaningless words, of that Elyanna is certain. Her Septa’s unnatural stillness and wide eyes only confirm what Elyanna’s heart already knows: These words, whatever they may mean, hold power.

They are _known_ for it.

Sister Barba takes a shaky breath. "Where did you hear those words, child?"

Elyanna blinks. "On the market? One of the merchants was muttering it under his breath." She makes it sound unsure, like a question. Like she isn’t entirely sure what she’s done wrong.

She doesn’t know why she lies.

[Except. There’s something about those words. The sound of them. The echo they leave behind when spoken out loud. The silkiness of the syllables, so deceptively gentle, so hauntingly inevitable. And Elyanna might be young, but she’s growing up in a kingdom built on bloodshed and Harry Potter is intimately familiar with the sound of a death sentence.]

Sister Barba closes her eyes and mutters a short prayer.

"Never speak those words again, Elyanna," she says once she’s finished. It’s no request, no. It’s a demand.

"But—"

"The words are from a language called High Valerian, but they are old words. Old enough to count as a language of their own." Sister Barba raises her voice to talk over her, face grimmer than Tyrion’s when he tries to scare Joff and her with his ghost stories. "It means '_all men must die_'. My Princess, these words are not used lightly, not by anyone. They are often perceived as an implied if not outright threat—" here, Sister Barba stops, gathering her thoughts, before she finally adds, "— or a dangerous offer that is not easily refused. Do _not_ repeat those words again."

"I won’t," Elyanna agrees once it becomes clear that the Septa won’t continue without some type of assurance that she’s taking the warning seriously. And for once it’s a promise she doesn’t mind to give. Her fingertips are still tingling from the rush saying the words has given her— other people might think it fear or even terror, but Elyanna knows magic, loves magic, and this feeling is closer than she’s been in years — there really is no missing the severity of them.

_'All men must die.'_ _I suppose, the question then becomes how Eon intended these words_, Elyanna muses as Sister Barba determinedly returns to her lecture._ A threat? An offer? A warning?_

_All of the above?_

The only thing she knows for sure is that he won’t tell her if she asks.

*

"Elyanna? Sweetling, are you alright?"

Only nine years of learning to keep her emotions tightly-locked up and under control keep Elyanna from flinching at the sound of her mother’s voice. She smiles her well-practiced gentle smile instead — the one that has over-confident young knights rolling their eyes before she even opens her mouth and it _grates_, no matter how useful — and turns towards where her mother sits to her father’s left at the high end of the table. A table far too large to only house the royal family, but that’s not an argument Elyanna considers worth her time.

"Of course, Mother." The lies come easier these days. Her parents are already worrying about Myrcella’s health and their own fights have only grown harsher with time. Elyanna doesn’t like to add to their burden, and it’s usually better to just tell them what they want to hear. And make faces at Joffrey when their parents’ aren’t looking.

[It takes more effort to get her brother to smile these days. But that endeavor is at least worth the work she puts into it.]

Mother simply raises an eyebrow — Elyanna has gotten better at lying, not _that_ good — which causes Father to snort. He’s on his fourth cup of wine already. It won’t be long now until he starts calling her Lyanna, she knows that from experience.

[At least he never looks at her _that_ way, that much Elyanna is willing to give her father. She doesn’t think he sees a lost lover when he looks at her either. Nothing and no one could ever replace Lyanna Stark in her father’s eyes. Elyanna simply has the dubious honor of coming closer than anyone else. No, for all the alcohol in his blood, her father never treats her like a lost lover — only like the child of one.]

"Are you sure?" Mother presses.

Joffrey rolls his eyes.

"She’s probably still upset about ruining her stupid stitches, Mother. Leave her be."

"Excuse me?" Elyanna narrows her eyes. "Did you call the dress I’ve been embroidering for the past _week_ 'stupid stitches'?"

"What if I did?"

"I’d say your jealousy is showing, brother. It’s no secret that you never mastered the craft quite as well as I did, no matter how hard you tried."

Joffrey’s grip clenches around his knife. He’s not one to appreciate being reminded of his own shortcomings — or his obsession with embroidery, which Elyanna gleefully takes all credit for.

"Well, you can’t have improved much in the past three years if you’ve messed up such a simple piece," her brother shoots back.

"Still makes me better than you ever were." The saccharine smile might be overdoing it. Oh well.

The hard look in Joffrey’s eyes is the first clue that they’re passing from mostly good-natured teasing straight into outright fighting.

They’re good at that. Riling each other up. _Too different_, their mother likes to complain. _Too similar_, Sister Barba often sighs. Elyanna likes to think that she’s fairly even-tempered — the way Uncle Tyrion snorted wine through his nose when he heard that proclamation need not be mentioned — but Joffrey has a way of getting under her skin that has previously been reserved for insane megalomaniacs with a direct access to her mind and stubborn assholes that rather call her a liar than face the ugly truth.

"That’s quite enough, children." Their mother cuts through the growing tension with practiced ease. "No fighting at the dinner table. You know the rules."

Joffrey lowers his head immediately, but not fast enough for Elyanna to miss the sneer on his face. And while she’s no mind reader, she has a very good idea of what’s going through her brother’s mind right now. After all, it’s not _Elyanna’s and Joffrey’s_ fights that have led to the implementation of that particular rule. They aren’t the ones known to throw plates at each other in a fury.

Not that little Myrcella seems bothered by the tension. She’s too busy chewing on the rag doll Elyanna has made for her. Her little sister is only a couple of months old, a cute little thing with dark fluff that passes for hair and eyes a bright baby blue that might yet darken into the same green as their mother’s.

"Apologies, Mother," Elyanna says nonetheless and kicks Joffrey in the shin until he fakes appropriate repentance as well.

There’s no point in saying anything else.

[And besides. Once they’ve finally been excused and have returned to Joffrey’s chambers, Elyanna slaps the palm of her right hand against her little brother’s with a genuine "Nice work, Joff!" for the flawless distraction he’s pulled off— and ruffles his hair when he lights up at the praise. Much to his annoyance.

Some days, it’s damn good to be Princess.]

*

It takes two days before Elyanna finds the time and confidence to pull Maester Colmar’s notes out of their hiding place again. Two long days. By the end of it, Elyanna has bitten her lip bloody and missed more marks during her training with the bow than Joffrey — which has never happened before, her brother’s probably convinced she’s dying or something — and been asked if she’s alright by more people than she cares to remember. It’s nice that they care and all, but mostly Elyanna just wishes they would leave her alone.

And they finally, _finally_ have.

Mother is busy with Myrcella, Father is busy being King, Joffrey has sword lessons and Sister Barba has given her the afternoon off to get herself together. She didn’t put it like that, but the sentiment was very much implied. And for once Elyanna very much plans to heed her Septa’s advice.

Elyanna carefully locks the door, covers her windows and does a rudimentary search of her entire room before she pulls the parchment from its hiding place behind the fireplace. There’s no such thing as being too careful. Not in the Red Keep, where every single inhabitant is ready to kill to learn valuable secrets — or kill to _keep_ them.

With the show Maester Colmar has made of giving her these papers, Elyanna doesn’t know what she expected. A letter, perhaps, revealing a shocking betrayal? A confession of from a dying man’s sins?

[None of that would’ve explained why the maester chose her though. That’s the one thing that’s been driving her crazy for the past two days. Why _her_?]

Whatever answers Elyanna dreamed up though, they are so far from truth it’s not even funny.

The parchment on top of the small pile is old. Not Aegon the Conqueror old, but a couple of years old nonetheless. The ink has begun to fade and the edges slightly torn, softened from regular touches. The date at the top of the page is a big clue too.

_281 AC_

It’s her birth record.

Elyanna turns the page. Then the next one. And the next. Brows furrowed in increasing confusion she scans the information Maester Colmar has painstakingly noted down over the years. All of it — _all_ of it — referring to her. The more she reads, the more obvious it becomes that this is her medical file. Or what passes for a medical file in this day and place. Everything from her difficult birth, her dead twin brother — and Elyanna swallows the ache that pulses through her at that thought down with determination —, that time she apparently fell from the second floor, the incident that gave her the lightening scar, even the regular health checks the Maester has performed every couple of months. It’s all there.

_But why—?_

Elyanna grits her teeth. Clearly, she’s missing something. Dying men don’t hand out parchments filled with information nilly-willy in their last few hours. Never mind that this is private, personal information pertaining to her health. Maester Colmar told her to burn this. All of it.

He obviously wasn’t afraid of her reading it. And why would he, it’s not like Elyanna doesn’t know most of these things already. But Maester Colmar was afraid. Truly afraid. Of someone else reading this. His successor being a likely suspect, considering the warning he’s given her.

Which poses the obvious question: What exactly do these records tell her? Or — perhaps more importantly — what would they tell another maester?

Eyes narrowed in concentration, Elyanna goes through the records again. This time slower, more attentive.

_Born too early, underdeveloped, underweight_… _has difficulties breathing properly_… _no broken bones but extensive bruising on lower back and shoulders_… _may never walk again_… _head wound has healed well_…_grown two inches_… _no lasting damage_… _wound shows signs of inflammation_… _treatment unsuccessful_… _suggest more time spent outside_… _grown another inch_… _fainted again_… _labored breathing_…

The more Elyanna studies the pages, the more she suspects that these aren’t official records of any kind. They read more like notes, some of them hastily scribbled down, some underlined or even scratched through repeatedly. There are references to books and people, questions noted and potential sources to look for answers. Not that it helps her understanding what Maester Colmar is trying to tell her.

Seriously, the guy knew he was going to die. And he had the time to _not_ be so damn cryptic. Why does she always end up puzzling through the unhelpful clues of old men that should’ve been perfectly capable of just speaking their bloody mind?

These papers aren’t even that interesting. Her records from Hogwarts, now those were wild. Would’ve made for an entertaining read too, that’s for sure. How often did she almost die in that school anyways? Elyanna doesn’t think Harry ever counted.

_Wait a moment_—

Elyanna flips back to the first page. _Born too early_, she reads — for the fifth time — in Colmar’s tiny, almost illegible handwriting. _Underdeveloped, underweight, likely won’t make it through the night_.

Then another, further down. _Doesn’t sleep through the night, has difficulties breathing properly, suffocation possible_.

Even more telling is the one around the six month mark of her life: _Stopped breathing twice, has somehow recovered_.

And again. And again.

That fall from the second floor? Should apparently have killed her. And when it didn’t do that, at the very least it should’ve paralyzed her. Elyanna doesn’t remember that incident — it was years ago and she was a toddler — but she’s pretty sure she was up and walking again in no time.

The curse scar that apparently haunts her in another life as well? She should have died of blood poisoning, fever, an infection, _anything_. Elyanna hasn’t thought much about it. About the way the scar looks like a freshly-cut wound even now, skin bright red and irritated around it. It’s _always_ looked that way. Why would she?

Well, apparently she should have. Apparently, Maester Colmar did.

And those, those are just the memorable incidents. Elyanna pushes the papers aside, stands up and walks towards the long mirror placed on the wall opposite her bed.

She’s spent all her life being told that she looks like a perfect mixture of her parents, with the dark hair and forehead of the Baratheons and the Lannister green eyes and cheekbones of her mother. [She’s spent all her life looking in the mirror and being caught off guard by how familiar this face is to her. How _Harry_.]

But Elyanna doesn't know if she's ever _really_ looked at herself.

She stares at the pale, thin face of the girl in the mirror. [The face of a boy that lives in a cupboard, that isn’t allowed to play outside except in later years, in the unforgiving summer sun.] At her thin shoulders, so unsuited to wielding the sword Joffrey trains with every day. Her spidery fingers that her mother always holds like they might break if she touches them. She’s thin, she knows that. Elyanna has always been thin. [The body of a boy that is fed scraps and leftovers. That always goes to bed with a clenching stomach, gnawing hunger his constant companion.] Elyanna is small, but she’s always been the smallest. And she doesn’t often play with children her own age. She hasn’t thought much about that either. [But neither of her parents are small people and Joffrey is already as tall as she is and don’t boys grow slower than girls?]

It’s stupid. It’s so, so stupid and oblivious. And yet.

Elyanna has never payed attention to how _fragile_ she looks. How _underfed_. How _pale_. How _lifeless_. Because the terribly sad thing is, she’s never known anything else.

Except Elyanna isn’t an unloved orphan boy anymore. She’s a princess who’s never gone hungry a day in her life. She spends more time in the Southern sun than away from it. She’s active— well, not that active, now that she thinks about it.

And the longer she looks at herself — at this ghost of a girl — the more oddities come to mind.

She’s been riding maybe, what, six times? And always just for an hour or two, just to ensure that she doesn’t fall off. But she’s a princess and horseback riding is definitely one skill she should be mastering.

Her practices with Joffrey never last more than an hour either and despite always keeping up with her training she _still_ struggles to properly pull the bowstring. It’s a child bow meant for these types of practice and her aim is great, but her strength? Her endurance?

When was the last time she climbed to the top floor to peer over the wall down at King’s Landing? When was the last time she climbed those stairs and didn’t feel like she would pass out by the time she was up there? How often did she sneak into the lower levels and _did_ pass out?

Elyanna can’t remember. That realization is almost worse. But she does remember her family’s constant overprotectiveness. She does remember all the times Joffrey let her win at one game or another, all the times he defeated her at sword’s play without any effort whatsoever — and should he really be so out of her league? Should he really be so much stronger than her?

Slowly, as if in trance, Elyanna lifts her hand and reaches out, gently lays her palm on the mirror, traces the sunken cheek of her reflection. Her fingertips feel cold.

She’s spent the past years alternating between rage, frustration and bitterness because of her gender. Because every time she wants to do something fun, something meaningful, someone throws the fact that she’s a girl in her face. Reminds her that she’s just a weak, little flower that might keel over dead the second she does something strenuous.

Elyanna hates it. Hates that she’s a damn princess and all these arrogant, sexist assholes in desperate need of a thorough trouncing still get to tell her what to do. And they still are arrogant, sexist assholes and this world she lives in still is one that would give Hermione nightmares and drive Ginny batshit crazy within a week—but.

For all that the thought tastes like bile or one of Luna’s self-made mixed drinks, for the first time Elyanna has to consider that _they might be right_.

*

Two hours later, Ser Jaime knocks on her door for the third time, impatience clearly audible, to remind her that it’s time for dinner.

Elyanna isn’t hungry. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever be hungry again in her life.

All she knows is that there’s something wrong with her. Something serious. Something people notice. Something Maester Colmar didn’t want to leave any proof of. And maybe. Maybe she’s sick. Maybe she’s dying. [He already did that twice, how bad can it be?]

Only why would that need to be kept quiet? From the next maester in particular? Someone who might have to treat her? No, that doesn’t fit.

Elyanna clenches her hands. Feels her nails digging into her palms hard enough to hurt.

Knowing something is all nice and well, but it’s not very useful when she still doesn’t know what it is that she knows. When she still doesn’t know what that knowledge is worth and why it needs to be kept a secret.

For now, Elyanna does the only thing she can: She listens to Ser Jaime’s threats to break down the door and watches the flames cackling in her fireplace. Maester Colmar had been insistent after all. Had been convinced that this knowledge is dangerous. Elyanna isn’t going to take his warning lightly.

She can’t afford to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a bit longer than planned to get out, sorry about the wait. Also I loved all your ideas concerning the papers, though I think only one person got close to what they really contain (in retrospect, I get why many of you suspected the incest thing, it was absolutely a possibility- and will come up eventually, no doubt about that). In any case, here's what the papers contain (plus some more Joff&Elyanna bonding and a tiny bit of magic). The question remains: What does this mean? *cackles evilly*  
I'd love to hear what you think of this chapter! And did any of you notice the hints in previous chapters regarding Elyanna's health?


	10. part x

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Of course they’re scared of you."

_291 AC_

Elyanna breathes in. Sucks the air deep into her lungs. Feels them expanding against her ribcage. Pulls the bowstring back in one smooth motion, until it rests uncomfortably taunt against her fingers, not quite cutting into her skin.

Her head is a mess. Has been ever since Maester Colmar managed to turn her world upside down from the grave. There’s too many half-assed assumptions she doesn’t know how to confirm. Too many vague threats hanging like dark clouds over her head. Blocking her view. But that isn’t important right now.

Right now it doesn’t matter what’s wrong with her. All that matters is the bow in her hand, the arrow held in a secure grip, her gaze fixed on the target ahead.

Elyanna doesn’t think about Colmar or the new Grand Maester Pycelle — and how she doesn’t like how the man looks at her mother or her for that matter — or the way Joffrey’s been watching her these last few lessons. Attentive and suspicious and too damn smart for his own good.

Because when Elyanna holds a bow in her hands, these things cease to matter. The restless voices in the back of her mind quieten and the world narrows down to a single black circle. There is no fear, no panic, no pride. There is only the thin wood that feels so natural in her hands, only the bullseye lying straight ahead, the rush in her ears drowning everything else out.

When Elyanna breathes out, she doesn’t think anything at all. Lets go like it is the simplest thing in the world.

Smirks when the arrow hits the center of their improvised target area with a resounding 'thud'.

"How do you _do_ that?" Joffrey whines.

"Skill, Joffrey." Elyanna doesn’t care how smug she sounds. "You might’ve heard about it. Oh, _wait_."

"Ha, ha." Her brother’s glare intensifies. "You think you’re so funny."

"That’s because I am, Joff."

"You’re not. And it’s Joffrey, not _Joff_." He wrinkles his nose like the mere sound of the nickname offends him.

Elyanna ignores his outrage with an ease born of years worth of practice. Say what you want about Joffrey, but he’s one hundred percent inherited their mother’s love for the dramatic. In another world, he would’ve made a fine Black. Right down to the temper tantrums and fits of rage when you really piss him off. Which Elyanna doesn’t do on purpose. Much.

Still, the temptation to rub her latest victory in is just too damn sweet to resist. Besides it’s not like Joffrey ever forgets to bring up her utter failure to best him at sword’s fighting — turnabout is fair play.

Not that their game is fair, exactly. Joffrey’s got his own bow — fitted perfectly for his size and weight, he is a prince after all, not that it increases his accuracy all that much. That doesn’t change that he still only hits two out of three targets and his arrows only rarely end up in the third circle. Elyanna on the other hand makes due with her stolen training bow — which she’s been teaching herself to fix, for lack of better options.

That still doesn’t make their competitions any fairer though.

"How many times do we have to do this until you accept that I’m the superior archer?" she asks genuinely curious as they collect their arrows. It wouldn’t do to leave unnecessary evidence behind.

Half the keep probably know what she and Joffrey get up to on this particular side of the garden, hidden from direct view of their parents’ quarters. Too many servants are in too many different pockets. And it doesn’t help that they need a certain amount of room to practice.

But that’s beside the point. Since no one has stopped them so far, Elyanna is determined to keep the illusion up. Tacit permission is the most her parents can offer her. It wouldn’t do to harm her marriage prospects, not that there’s anything that would make a princess in direct line to the Iron Throne truly unmarriageable — greed trumps honor and purity every time, after all.

"Girls aren’t supposed to be arrogant." It’s a petulant murmur, but not as quiet as it ought to be.

Elyanna raises her eyebrows. "Whoever told you that beautiful piece of bullshit, brother mine?"

"It’s not bullshit!" Joffrey defends and throws an arrow back into his quiver with more force than necessary. "And girls aren’t supposed to swear either!"

"Sure," Elyanna drawls. "When a girl brags, she’s called arrogant. But when a boy brags, he’s confident in his skills. And Gods save us all from a girl willing to speak her mind and call the things as they are instead of as people would like them to be. The Kingdom would never survive it."

And it’s not fair, maybe, to snap at Joffrey like that. Not like it’s his fault that they’re being raised with a Sexist 101 handbook downloaded into their brains from the time they are five years old. But it’s not like there’s a long line of volunteers for Elyanna to vent her frustrations to. And seriously.

What a _fucking_ time to be born as a girl.

Joffrey stares at her with a look of utter incomprehension.

"What?!"

"Well…you’re terrifying." He says it matter-of-factly. An unshakeable truth the Gods themselves have revealed to him. "And you always do what you want to do, no matter what anyone says. If you don’t like something, you just change things to your liking. Of course they’re scared of you."

Elyanna blinks. Swallows the wild mix of emotions suddenly swelling up in her chest at Joffrey’s proclamation. He sounds so calm, so certain. Like it should be obvious. Like he’s never known any different. Like his words don’t feel like a punch to the stomach, a redefinition of everything she’s ever known and believed.

_He’s so young_.

"We." It’s the only thing Elyanna can think to say in response to that simple, earth-shattering statement.

"What?"

"We. We’ll change things to our liking." _It sounds better that way_. _It sounds right_.

Joffrey looks at her for a long moment, eyes wide and yet so painfully, utterly guileless. Then he smiles, bright and happy, and smiling back is the easiest thing Elyanna has ever done in her life.

Her brother tilts his head, grin twisting into a smirk that isn't half as harmless and suddenly he isn’t five anymore, he’s almost nine and yet so much older, and there’s that sharpness in him that will one day cut glass and diamond alike.

"They’ll be scared of both of us. I like the sound of that."

_So do I_.

*

The hardest part about being Elyanna Baratheon isn’t that there’s a part of her that remembers being Harry Potter. It’s not even being a girl — no matter how much she wants to tear her hair out every time someone tells her _ladies don’t_. It sucks and she really isn’t sure what Harry’s done to earn this unique punishment.

[He hasn’t been that sexist, has he? Hermione never would’ve tolerated him telling her she can’t do something because she’s a girl. Not to mention, Hermione usually got things done before anyone else had even figured out that there was an issue. And okay, he did tell Ginny not to fight, but that wasn’t because she was a girl. That was because she was _Ginny_ and for once in his life Harry just wanted to be selfish. He’d _earned_ that.]

The hardest part about being Elyanna Baratheon is the lack of magic.

[Even as a child, long before she’s ever heard the phrase _Valar morghulis_, Elyanna knew that magic is real. That it isn’t dead, can’t be gone, no matter how many people older and wiser than her tell her differently. This world, for all its misery, is filled to the brim with magic. From the dragon skeletons resting in the lower levels under her feet to the drunken priest with the flaming sword who won Father’s latest tournament to the sigils of direwolves and dragons scattered all over the realm. It’s there. Everywhere. In the woods and the sea and the air surrounding her.

And yet, Elyanna had told herself that they were right. That magic is dead. Had to be dead. That was easier than admitting that it’s right there, for everyone to see — and no matter how hard she tries, no matter how desperately she reaches out, she still can’t touch it.]

[_Lumos_, Elyanna whispers, four years old and filled with hope and excitement and certainty. _Lumos_. _Lumos_. _Lumos_. _Lumos!_

Nobody sees your tears in total darkness and, really, that’s almost like not crying at all.]

Some nights, when Elyanna’s dreams are especially intense — leave the memories closer to the surface, a shadow haunting her every waking moment — she can remember what it feels like. To have power thrumming under your skin, lightening racing through your veins. To bend and twist the world around you.

The faces of the people she never knew fade, lose some of their focus over time, but that feeling never does. There’s a clarity to it that her memories of Ron and Hermione, Voldemort and the Dursleys, Cho and Ginny and all the others lack.

Elyanna hates it. Hates missing something, _aching_ for something, she never had. Yet she can’t regret those memories. Can’t wish them gone and mean it. Can’t stop welcoming them, recalling them when she feels most alone.

[If this is the price for the second chance she’s been granted, well. Elyanna wishes she could say that she doesn’t regret it, would never take it back, because it got her a family that loves her and she’s doing just fine without that bit of hocus pocus under her skin. It would be a lie, but most days Elyanna can almost make herself believe it.]

*

Grand Maester Pycelle — who is sent by the Citadel to take over Maester Colmar’s duties — is an old man with hair as grey as his robe and creaking bones that he likes to complain about. Elyanna dislikes him on first sight.

She likes to think she would’ve done so even without Maester Colmar’s warning. They have to suffer through a description of the hardships of the man’s travels to the city at such an advanced age for twenty minutes — _How did you think you were going to get here?_ Elyanna thinks uncharitably. _Via airplane?_ — before Joffrey’s patience snaps. In all honesty, Elyanna is proud of her brother for lasting that long.

"Is there a reason we’re listening to this grey rat waste our time?" Joffrey asks their mother, not so much as bothering to look at the man who’s long-winded tale he’s just interrupted.

Mother gives him a sharp look, the faintest hint of red coloring her cheeks. She can be strict about manners, even with them.

Not that Joffrey cares. If anything it seems to encourage him. And why would he, when their mother sends the Grand Maester away with a short apology and a thank you for his efforts a few moments later.

"Well done, son." Father pats Joffrey on the shoulder with a boisterous laugh, hard enough to almost bowl him over. "Didn’t think we’d ever get rid off him otherwise."

Joffrey smiles — not as bright as he does when they’re alone, but still — which should’ve been their first clue that the evening would only go downhill from there.

A decent second clue is the glower on Mother’s face.

"That was very rude, Joffrey. A king needs to know when to listen to his subjects," she comments, voice icy as she turns towards their father. "You shouldn’t encourage him so."

Father rolls his eyes and gestures for a new cup of wine.

"What would you know about being a king, woman?"

Mother purses her lips, eyes sharp like broken glass on a kitchen floor, and Elyanna decides it’s high-time to get out of here.

She’s come to terms with her parents’ hatred for each other. At least she likes to think so. That doesn’t mean she has to watch them tear each other apart though.

*

"I’m sorry, could you please repeat that?" Elyanna asks — _begs_ — her mother. Because surely her ears are playing a trick on her. She can’t have possibly heard that right.

Mother’s lips quirk. "I admit, out of the two of you I would have expected Joffrey to be more upset."

"I’m not—" Elyanna shakes her head in a faint hope that it might clear her chaotic thoughts. "I’m not _upset_."

She isn’t. The words still feel like a lie though, and from the knowing look her mother shoots her, she hears it as well.

"Sweetling—"

"No," Elyanna interrupts. "Mother, I’m- I’m happy for you. Truly, I am."

She doesn’t think she imagines the way her mother’s shoulder’s relax, the way the green eyes they share lighten. She looks softer in that moment. Younger too. In another world, they could easily be mistaken for cousins or even sisters.

"I just don’t understand." Elyanna doesn’t mean to sound so— plaintive. So childlike. She’s almost ten years old, but more than that she’s already lived around twenty before that. [She’s still a little fuzzy on the precise number. Some memories come to her easier than others and her death. His death doesn’t come to her at all.]

"What don’t you understand?" Mother asks with her softest of voices, the one she usually reserves for nightmares, sickbeds and sweet, tiny Myrcella.

When Elyanna doesn’t answer immediately, her mother reaches out and treads a gentle hand through her wild hair. It reminds her of the many hours the two of them shared back when Elyanna was younger. Her mother would brush her hair and braid it in elaborate styles that had the ladies in court falling over themselves cooing at her. She still does that sometimes, but only on special occasions. These days, Elyanna has a two handmaids and a lady-in-waiting to help her get ready.

[_Because putting your clothes on is such an arduous task_, part of her sneers. But, well. What else does she have to do the entire day, besides her lessons and hours at court?]

The familiarity relaxes her and Elyanna says the words she’s been swallowing back down for years tumble out before she even realizes it: "You and Father _hate_ each other."

Elyanna feels her mother tense behind her, but in for a penny, in for a pound, right? "And I understand that that’s the way things are, that you can’t change that." Well, Elyanna can’t change that. They could. But that’s neither here nor there. "But if you despise him so much, why did you— Father has three children already. You’ve done your duty. And you always fight. I know how unhappy it makes you just to eat together, why would you do _that_ when you know he’ll still—"

Merlin damn it, she’s a grown man-woman-person, she should be able to say _sex_. And _fuck his whores_. It’s not that difficult. And there’s no one in the entire keep — the entire city — who doesn’t know about her father’s escapades, her mother’s shame. The servants aren’t as quiet as they think. That and she’s still young enough that people assume a lot of that talk goes straight over her head. Elyanna has done nothing to disabuse them of that notion.

Still, these are her parents — this is her mother — she’s talking about and Elyanna can’t bring herself to voice those thoughts. She doesn’t know if she’s protecting her mother or herself, but she can’t.

Mother’s hands tremble as they begin to twist tresses of Elyanna’s hair in familiar, soothing motions, but her voice is even when she speaks again.

[Lily Potter was fire and genius and stubbornness to the end. Cersei Lannister is glass shards, viciousness and ice right down to the core. It’s a curious fate, to be born to two women who’s shadows she can’t possibly outgrow.]

"Your father," because it’s always _your_ father, never _my_ husband, "has three children, aye. But he only has one heir, sweetling." Bitterness coats her voice like a concealed dagger, not revealed until the damage is already done. "It is my pleasure and my duty to give him more."

"You’re lying." Again the words are out before Elyanna’s mind catches up with her tongue.

"I’m not." Her mother laughs, golden and tingling. It scares Elyanna more than she wants to admit that she can’t tell whether it’s genuine or not. "There’s no greater gift than one’s children, Elyanna. No greater love. Some day you will understand that."

[_Will she?_ Harry had wanted children, sure. But he’d died long before those vague dreams had the chance to solidify into something concrete. And Elyanna? Elyanna doesn’t know what she wants. It’s not being reduced to a brood maid for a noble house though, that much she’s sure of.]

"You can’t live your life just for us though," Elyanna whispers after a moment. Thinks of the screams that used to haunt her — still do — of a mother begging for her son’s life. Thinks of a mother lying in the great Dark Lord’s face because of a far-off chance to see her child again. Thinks of Mrs. Weasley kneeling over Fred’s lifeless body, tear-stricken and _broken_.

Her mother’s hands falter in their practiced movements, but only for a moment.

"What else is there?" Mother asks, so quiet Elyanna doesn’t think she meant to say the words at all.

They bring tears to her eyes for reasons she can’t fully put into words, but Elyanna doesn’t respond. No easy answer comes to mind.

"I look forward to meeting my new sibling in a few moons then," she says instead when her mother puts the finishing touches on her new braid.

Her mother just smiles and carefully grabs hold of her shoulders, turns her around to face the mirror. "You look beautiful," she says and Elyanna feels like crying all over again.

[Another little brother or sister should be a joyous occasion. Their family, growing once more! So why does it feel like, no matter what they do and how hard they try, all her family seems to do is break further apart?]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After I got you all used to protective!Joffrey, I've decided it's high time to pull out yet another tag-I-never-thought-I-might-use-one-day: insightful!Joffrey for the win!  
Yeah, this chapter is basically Elyanna emotionally not-dealing with the fallout from the last one and a lot of family fluff&angst. Please let me know what you think about this chapter!! And any thoughts on how Elyanna might want to start unravel her health issues - plausible or not - are more than welcome!!  
Have a great weekend, everyone!


	11. part xi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We won't inherit our crown from a pretentious chair doomed to ruin greater men and legends so old they gather dust in our veins."

_291 AC - 292 AC_

"You don’t like Pycelle very much, do you?" Ser Jaime asks on their way back to her chambers. He’s always more talkative in the evenings, as though the lengthening shadows make it easier for him to shed is stoic knight personality and reveal the quips and smirks beneath. Also he’s less like to run into her father, which tends to improve his mood.

Elyanna doesn’t blame him. She loves her father but if he was married to _her_ sister, she probably wouldn’t like him either. [She’d have pushed him off the highest tower of the keep, but that’s a different discussion altogether.]

"Whatever gave you that idea?" she answers airily.

Ser Jaime snorts. Actually snorts. It’s a good thing Mother isn’t around to hear him. She wouldn’t be best pleased with that sort of behavior. _Too common_, she’d say. And Elyanna would grin and imitate Jaime’s 'unacceptable' antics just to make her smile.

"I don’t know," her uncle drawls. "Mayhaps it’s the way you look at him with soul-shriveling disgust. Or it might have been the way you stared at him during his audience today like you’d like nothing more than to take your dinner knife and drive it handle-deep into his eyeballs?"

Elyanna winces. "That bad, huh?"

"Elyanna, when Pycelle interrupted Joffrey I thought I’d have to hold you back from throwing yourself at him and scratching his eyes out." Ser Jaime’s voice is drier than father’s favorite wine. "Considering this is Joffrey we’re talking about, I’m more used to him glaring at people like he wishes they’d drop dead already."

_Fair enough_.

Joffrey’s gotten a bit better at the whole political dance — not that Elyanna could teach him much in that regard except a very long list of what-not-to-dos — but he’s still a nine year old surrounded by simpering adults with their poisonous claws. Frankly, it’s a miracle they’re as well adjusted as they are. Elyanna has high hopes for Myrcella as well though since she hasn’t even spoken her first word yet, it’s a bit early to tell.

"I don’t like the way he’s looking at Mother." _Or Joffrey. Or me_.

That earns her a raised eyebrow from her uncle. "And how exactly does the Grand Maester look at Cersei?"

Elyanna bites her lip. Contemplates all the viable answers that wouldn’t make Ser Jaime liable to kill Pycelle when no one’s watching — not that she’d care, but she needs to have her answers first — which means _like he wants to fuck her_ is absolutely out. Besides if her uncle hasn’t figured that out on his own, he doesn’t deserve to be her sworn knight. Pycelle isn’t even trying to cover up his sleaziness. Or he is, which would actually be horrifying in a very sad sort of way.

And hey, maybe if Elyanna hadn’t been forewarned, she wouldn’t have noticed. But Maester Colmar did warn her not to trust his successor and even if those were just the words of an old, dying man, Elyanna had thought it wise to pay attention to their new household member rather than risk being taken by surprise later on.

Considering that the great Grand Maester Pycelle hadn’t lasted his first week without breaking his chastity vows, Elyanna really doesn’t think it’s just her personal bias talking either. Like Ser Jaime always tells her, you can’t trust a man once he’s broken a vow because you don’t know if he’ll keep any others.

[Granted, he usually says that in self-depreciation and never when he’s sober, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a point. It’s a terrible thing to be known as the _Kingslayer_, but Elyanna thinks what really wears Jaime down is that the title fits him and fits him well. _Does doing it for the right reasons absolve you of your crimes?_]

"I don’t know." She settles for a shrug Sister Barba would smack her for. "I just don’t like it."

It’s the best she can do.

Ser Jaime looks reluctantly amused at the proclamation. That’s the first thing that tips Elyanna off. _He already knows_. _He sees it too_. That really shouldn’t surprise her. Her uncle is a princess’ sworn sword and the youngest knight to ever be elected into the Kingsguard. He didn’t get there by looking pretty — and those who whisper about how her mother got all the brain and her uncle all the brash are idiots refusing to acknowledge what’s right in front of them.

_Oh well. Their loss._

The second hint is that Ser Jaime doesn’t take his customary place in front of the door to her private rooms — where he’ll be relieved of his guarding duty in a few hours by Ser Mandon — but instead follows her into her chambers, careful to close the door behind them.

"Alright, Swifty, talk to me." He makes himself comfortable in her favorite armchair — or as comfortable as one can be when still wearing most of his armor. "What’s your real problem with the grey rat?"

Elyanna scowls. She doesn’t appreciate the stupid nickname Ser Jaime had given her when he caught her firing off an arrow for the first time. Though at least he had been impressed by her accuracy, if not by her form.

"Who says there’s anything else?"

"The fact that half of King’s Landing’s populace is looking at your mother _like that_." Ser Jaime sends her a way too knowing smirk. "And you haven’t been spitting fire about it before Pycelle arrived, little princess. Besides, like it or not, Cersei is a woman grown, capable of handling herself."

[_But would she, if she thought it was for mine or Joffrey’s or even Myrcella’s good? _The thought flutters in and out of her mind so quickly, Elyanna feels it slip through her fingers before she’s fully grasped it. The sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach remains though.]

"I just—" Elyanna clenches her hands into fists, unsure how to put the mess of thoughts and mixed signals she’s received on this subject into a proper explanation that her uncle will accept.

"Why did the Citadel send a Grand Maester?"

Ser Jaime blinks. Once. Twice. He hasn’t expected this question, that much is clear.

"The Orderof Maestersserve to the Iron Throne, Elyanna. After Maester Colmar died, they were required to send someone else. Didn’t your Septa cover these things?"

"Yes, she did!" Elyanna snaps, unable to keep her impatience under wraps any longer. "That’s why I don’t understand why they _didn’t_!"

"They didn’t do what?"

"They didn’t send another _Maester_. They sent a _Grand Maester_," Elyanna forces out from between gritted teeth. "Why would they do that? What’s so different that we suddenly need a Grand Maester to watch over us?"

It’s only when no answer comes forth and Elyanna turns around and catches the way Jaime’s fingertips are dancing restlessly over the sheath of his sword that she realizes she’s asked the wrong question. Or, perhaps more worrying, the _right_ one. Her uncle doesn’t look at her, but there’s no sign of the smile he usually wears like it’s going out of style. The only thing that’s missing is for him to shift back and forth in guilt.

Okay, then. Elyanna crosses her arms in front of her chest, raises her eyebrows — she still hasn’t figured out how to raise just one, it’s freaking unfair that even getting born again hasn’t granted her that — and shifts her hip. She’s too young yet to pull that move off completely but there’s something ageless in having a pissed-off female glower at you. [Harry would know.]

Ser Jaime’s unsubtle grimace is satisfying as well.

"We-ell?"

Her uncle sighs, but it’s the way his shoulders sag that tells Elyanna she has won and he isn’t just pretending to appease her.

"Elyanna," he says — and it’s never a good thing when he says her name like that — "there’s nothing out of the ordinary about Pycelle’s station. The maester in service of the royal family is _supposed_ to be of a high station, one of their most _well-learned_ and _wisest_." He doesn’t quite manage to cover his derision at that last part.

"But-"

Ser Jaime shakes his head and Elyanna falls silent. "Maester Colmar was an exception, not the rule." He runs a hand through his hair, restless and uncomfortable. Ill at ease like he only ever gets when— _oh_.

"Do you know what happened to the Grand Maester Maester Colmar was sent to replace?" Her uncle doesn’t look up from where he’s staring at nothing over her shoulder, doesn’t see the realization flashing over her face. Elyanna’s almost grateful for that — there’s something in his eyes when he gets like this that scares her. He doesn’t wait for a response. "He didn’t just die, he burned alive. There’s no worse death than that, trust me."

Elyanna swallows.

[Thinks of the shells left of Frank and Alice Longbottom after the Lestranges were done with them. Thinks of basilisk venom spreading slowly — way too fast — through her veins. Thinks of that poor witch that was devoured by Nagini. Thinks of _Fiendfyre_ roaring around her so loud, they never even heard Crabbe’s screams.]

_Does it matter in the end?_ she wonders. But that isn’t the point her uncle is trying to make, so she doesn’t voice that thought.

"After that, well. The Citadel wasn’t exactly falling over itself to send a new envoy, particularly a high-ranking one." Ser Jaime laughs, raw and bitter. The mere sound of it hurts Elyanna in her soul. "_Imagine that_. I’m told Colmar volunteered, though why the fuck he’d do that I have no clue."

Elyanna reaches out, entwines her hands with her uncle’s shaking ones. "I guess someone had to." And she doesn’t mean for her voice to come out so soft, so understanding when she shouldn’t get it, too young still, but maybe some of it — the knowledge, the absolution — slips out regardless.

"Yeah," Jaime croaks.

And Elyanna sees him then. Sees a seventeen year old boy, white cloak drenched in blood and eyes blank. A vow broken, a life ended, a city saved.

"Someone had to."

*

It’s not that Elyanna has forgotten about the riddle Eon has given her. Or not on purpose at least. But there’s a lot going on her life these days. Her name day comes and goes within a blink of the eye. Mother’s starting to show more and more, Elyanna is expected to help out with Myrcella since her mother can’t anymore and Joffrey’s in a sulk over _yet another brat he’ll have to watch out for once they’re old enough to run wild in the keep_. His words, not hers.

Elyanna thinks she can be excused for not spending her rare free moments hunting down old books to figure out the potential theoretical differences between rebirth and reincarnation.

Still. She misses Eon. Misses sneaking out of the keep and just being Ella for a little while. But she knows she couldn’t bear not seeing Eon if she’d sneak away and she’s not sure how welcoming he’d be. He’s been kind about it the last time, but there was a clear warning there as well.

_You shouldn’t return without an answer_, he’d told her.

Well, Elyanna doesn’t plan to. At the rate things are going though, she’ll be old and grey long before that happens.

Elyanna sighs and leans back in the uncomfortable wooden chair. This particular book — if you can call the collection of lose parchments that, which Hermione definitely wouldn’t — is old and an utter pain to read besides. It’s also completely useless. The author just goes on and on about the differences between the body, the mind and the soul, but none of that even touches on any after-death scenarios.

Well. That’s the last of the scriptures Sister Barba has offered her when Elyanna had thought to inquire. Most of them, admittedly, were less Faith-filled than Elyanna would’ve expected, but what passes for science around this age isn’t that much better. She barely remembers any of Harry’s lessons on maths, physics and the likes, but she’s pretty sure she still knows more about human biology than anyone else in the castle.

_Sex ed for the win!_ she thinks uncharitably and dear lord, even her own thoughts sound sarcastic now.

There’s no point in asking her parents for any books on the matter. It’s taken Elyanna a while to notice — she’s not that much of a bookworm, alright — but books are rare. And while the Red Keep has a library, it’s not a very extensive one. It makes sense when she thinks about it. Without proper printing machines, books are luxury items, and ones that few people are learned enough to make use of besides. Doesn’t mean she has to like it though.

Sister Barba had told her to ask the Grand Maester for help, for surely the knowledge collected by his order must hold the answers she seeks, but _like hell _is Elyanna going to ask Pycelle of all people in this cursed city for a favor. Nope. That’s not happening. She’ll have to figure this out on her own — like she always does.

*

When their mother goes into labor two weeks earlier than expected, Elyanna is worried. Not as worried as when they finally let her into the birthing room though — and really, if Pycelle hadn’t finally moved out of the way, she would’ve fucking _made_ him — and she sees the expression on her mother’s face.

It’s not devastation, not quite. But there’s something about her expression as she looks up from the small bundle placed in her arms that makes Elyanna’s insides quiver in nervous anticipation.

"Mother?" she asks fearfully despite herself.

The baby isn’t dead, is it? Elyanna doesn’t know what she would do with that — not that there’s anything she could do — but what she knows with absolute certainty is that it would break her mother. She doesn’t know if she and Joffrey would be strong enough to pick up the pieces. Because her father, all affection for him aside, surely wouldn’t bother.

He isn’t even here now. In his defense, they hadn’t expected the baby to come so soon and he’d been itching for a hunt for some time. Mother had been itching to have him out of her hair as well, so that had worked out nicely. Until her mother had almost toppled over after dinner, that is.

"Elyanna." Her mother looks like she’s trying to smile but can’t convince her lips to move right.

Holds out the child towards her — and Elyanna does panic at that because the body is so, so tiny, what if she drops it — but at least it’s squirming. At least it’s _alive_. She takes her newest sibling into her arms carefully, stares at the prune skin, the fluff of barely there, black hair that she sort of remembers from Myrcella, back before the most adorable dark locks started to curl around her sweet, little face.

"Meet your new sibling," her mother says, and it’s not the words that have Elyanna’s head snap up to meet her gaze — it’s the way she says them. Tired resignation comes to mind.

Elyanna doesn’t get it. Her mother’s alive, her sibling is alive, that’s really the best outcome you can hope for when the most common answer to _something’s wrong_ is _pray to the Seven_. Joffrey’s not the only one in their family who missed the train to the Faith, that’s for sure.

Her mother’s sigh pulls her back into the present. She sounds exhausted and so, so _done_. "Her name is Gwyneth."

Oh. That— that might be a problem.

*

The thing is, it shouldn’t have been one. A healthy baby is a cause for celebration, not a reason to hold a fucking wake. Sometimes Elyanna forgets how fucked up the world she lives in is. It’s easy to forget, she supposes. What with being a princess, being cared for and protected wherever she goes. Being never told no unless it’s because people deem her too young, too fragile or too much of a girl. The last two incidentally happen to be most closely related.

Elyanna doesn’t get it. She’s been raised in this world for ten years, and she still doesn’t get it. But apparently that her mother has born the King four healthy children isn’t good enough. Because three of them are girls. And although only Tyrion has the guts to say it to her face, Elyanna understands just fine that _girls don’t count_.

It makes her want to stab someone other than Pycelle for once, but that wouldn’t improve matters. Still, the temptation is there.

"I don’t get it," Joffrey tells her in the privacy of his chambers after another way too long day at court. He doesn’t hear the same sharp comments that the ladies drop in her presence — as though that isn’t _her mother, their Queen _they’re talking about, as though this is somehow _her_ fault — but apparently the knights and squires aren’t any less subtle in letting their feelings be known.

"Hm?" Elyanna looks up from where she’s been pretending to stitch a little doe into a silken dress for the past hour. And failing miserably.

"Mikka and Ryon just kept going on and on how Father still doesn’t have a spare heir." Joffrey purses his lips and twists the wooden sword in his hands around in an aggressive, stabbing motion. "I didn’t like it."

And maybe Elyanna has spent too much time with the ladies at court lately because the first thing out of her mouth isn’t a heartfelt agreement, it’s a way-too-gentle-to-come-from-her "They’re only worried about the King’s line of succession. The rebellion didn’t end _that_ long ago and nobody wants another war."

"So?" Joffrey lowers his sword and turns to face her fully. "Father has four children, that’s plenty enough. Besides he’s not going to die any time soon and Mother will be able to carry more children should it be necessary."

"I don’t know," Elyanna admits with a shrug. She’s asked herself the same thing, after all. "Maybe the war has been over for long enough, the people have rebuilt enough that they’ve got the time to concern themselves with such matters. Maybe now that they have something to lose again, they really want the Baratheon line to remain strong, if only to keep things the way they are."

"That’s stupid!" Joffrey proclaims.

Elyanna can’t for the life of her suppress the smile at that response. Spoken like a true nine-year-old indeed. "Well, that’s people for you. Besides they don’t worry entirely without reason. Father might be young, but if something were to happen, you would be without heir. And you’re not old enough to marry for several years yet. I think that makes certain people nervous."

"Once I’m King, those _certain people_ will be hanged!" Joffrey growls under his breath.

Elyanna should probably remind her brother that murdering one’s subjects is not the most assured way to gain their loyalty, but he continues before she has the chance.

"And if I had to be King, I’d make you my heir. That would show them."

Elyanna— stares.

"Much as I’d _love_ to see the Small Council’s faces when you present them with that solution," nope, there’s no keeping the totally inappropriate glee out of her voice, damn it, this is why she loves her little brother, "we both know that’s not an option, Joffrey."

"Sure it is." He sounds so sure too. "And you know that. I’ve told you before."

Has he? Elyanna can’t remember. It’s entirely possible though. Joffrey’s never made a secret out of the fact that he values her — maybe even more than their parents do. But he can’t actually mean that. Much as Elyanna hates the utter disregard she faces for her bloody gender, you can’t just turn a rotten system inside out. Even back in Britain, gender equality was still a thing to be fought for and improved — when they weren’t busy fighting for their right to live and the rights of other creatures that is — and they had a series of industrial and social revolutions going for them. Things Elyanna doubts Westeros will see in her great-grand children’s lifetimes, never mind hers.

With a sigh and a heartfelt curse towards whatever entity has seen it fit to bring her here, into this very world, Elyanna steps closer towards her brother and lays a hand on his shoulder. Squeezes, just once, to catch his eyes. "I’m flattered, Joff. I truly am. But you have to know that it won’t work like that. No, listen!" she hastily continues when he makes to protest. "You can declare me your heir all you like, as long as you live everyone will look to you as the King. And should you— should you die, do you really think anyone would follow me? A girl? When they could have the Iron Throne, all that power, for themselves?"

Elyanna shakes her head. "Maybe if I was some clueless, easily led, little flower someone else could rule from the shadows. But I’m pretty sure at least most of everyone in the Red Keep knows me better than that." There’s a rueful smile on her lips as she thinks of all the times she’s proven that _being quiet and looking pretty _is very much beyond her skill set. "I have too many opinions and ideas on how things should be for anyone to so much as let me near the throne. You said it yourself, they’re afraid of me. Afraid of what I’d do with that kind of power because they know that I’d use it the way I want to. There’s no ruler more dangerous than that."

The more she speaks, the more Joffrey’s face falls. Elyanna hates to do this to her brother. He means well, she knows that. He knows how much she hates being treated the way she is because of her gender, knows how those restrictions chafe at her, drive her wild with a frustration she can barely verbalize.

"But I’m gonna be King!" he protests anyways, though it’s much weaker and less convinced than before.

"Even a King can’t force someone else to believe something they don’t want to believe. You can’t make them see me as a direct heir. And even if by some miracle you did, what do you think would happen once I marry?"

Joffrey grimaces.

"Exactly." Elyanna nods, fingers clenching around his shoulders. "My husband would be King and I might be Queen but it wouldn’t mean_ anything_." Being Queen would still be a worthless title compared to the her husband’s position, and they both know it.

"But it’s stupid!" Joffrey finally shouts. Rips himself out of her hold, just so he can throw his arms outwards, make room for the emotions that refuse to simmer down. Elyanna has an idea or two what that feels like.

"It is," she agrees immediately.

And now her brother is looking at her like she has somehow betrayed him. "We said we would change things!" he hisses, every syllable dripping with accusation. "You said we would! Together!"

"We will. We _will_!" Elyanna confirms without hesitation. She believes that. She _has_ to believe it or she’ll go mad before they ever put a crown on her brother’s pretty head. "But not like this."

Closing her eyes, Elyanna takes a deep breath before she forces herself to face her brother again. He looks— angry, confused, disappointed and determined all at once. They probably should’ve had this conversation the first time he brought this up. But better late than never, right? She sits down on her bed, pats the space besides her invitingly. Only continues once Joffrey has finally sat down besides her with a small huff of unvoiced protest.

"I won’t be your heir, Joffrey," she starts. Says it as a statement, a fact. To make it clear that this isn’t something open for discussion. At least Joffrey knows her well enough to wait for her to finish her explanation before he starts his own arguments. There’s a flutter of pride in her chest at the sight of him biting down on his lip, visibly forcing himself to wait.  
_I’ve taught him well_.

"Being declared your heir wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t improve my station, except possibly making my hand even more desirable for all the wrong reasons. And even if we somehow pull it off— what kind of rule would that grant me? To have the final word over a bunch of men convinced I don’t know what I’m doing? How could I trust my men to listen to _me_ and obey _my_ orders instead of those from any advisor I’d take on? That’s not a life I want for myself, Joffrey. Please. Please don’t ask that of me."

Joffrey opens his mouth. Closes it again. Takes a deep, shuddering breath, hands clenched so hard the skin around his knuckles is turning white. Without a thought, Elyanna reaches out and lays her hands on his. Meets those eyes the same shade of green as her own.

"I’m supposed to be King," Joffrey finally whispers and neither of them acknowledges the way his voice shakes. "You’re supposed to be Queen. You _promised_, Lya."

And Elyanna tells herself she knows better but try as she might, hearing him speak like this — so young, so hopeless — breaks something inside her.

"I know. And we will." The words are out before she can think of all the reasons why she shouldn’t make such promises. Her thumbs stroke the back of his hands until she feels the muscles relax under her touch. "But we can’t both rule Westeros at the same time. You have to know that. It’s not like we can marry and I sure as fuck am not going to be your sister-queen."

Joffrey’s lips twitch at that, and though her laugh sounds wet even to her own ears, Elyanna can’t not return his grin.

"We aren’t Targaryens, Joffrey," she murmurs, a confession and a oath in one. "We won't inherit our crown from a pretentious chair doomed to ruin greater men and legends so old they gather dust in our veins. We are Baratheons and the Kingdoms we rule, we rule because we _earn_ them."

Slowly Joffrey withdraws his hands, leans back onto her bed propped up on his elbows instead. "Is that so?" he asks and for the first time this evening there’s laughter glittering in his eyes. "And which Kingdom are you going to rule if Westeros isn’t good enough for you, your Grace? The Free Cities perhaps? Or are you going to brave the frozen lands beyond the wall?" He’s mocking her, but he’s also curious and that’s the only reason Elyanna doesn’t push him off her bed.

"Who knows." She smirks, that self-assured expression she’s copied straight from Draco Malfoy’s face. "Maybe I’ll join the Dothraki and become the Khaleesi of the greatest khalasar that ever was."

The smile drops so fast from her brother’s face, it’s not even funny. Actually, no. It’s plenty funny. Elyanna’s smirk widens.

"You’re japing!" Joffrey exclaims. And when all she does is break down into giggles, he throws himself at her, pins her down onto her very comfortable mattress."Elyanna? Tell me you’re japing! You can’t mean that! They’re _savages_! I forbid it!"

It takes Elyanna a couple of minutes to calm down from her laughing fit enough to formulate an appropriate response.

"I’ll be Queen, I won’t ask your permission," she states and that, at least, she really does mean, no matter that she still can’t stop smiling, that she’s breathless and barely audible.

Then, in one swift move she doesn’t remember learning, she pulls her leg up and around Joffrey’s neck, forcibly dislodges him from his hovering position on top of her and uses his loss of balance to flip them over. By the time he knows what’s happening, she already has his wrists in a secure grip and is grinning down at him, wild and uninhibited for once. She can’t remember the last time she felt so _good_.

Leaning down until the tips of their noses are almost touching, Elyanna feels her grin widen into a smug expression that never fails to drive the knights in the training yard wild.

"I’ll marry the most savage of them all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you've missed the Canon Divergence tag at the beginning (and all the hints of things that are different due to Elyanna's presence) here's an undeniable change for you: Thommen is now Gwyneth. What can you do? *shrugs* Also the timeline is already slightly off (I accidentally used the movie ages when I was planning to use the book timeline, so now I'm gonna stick with those and since things will go different - again, canon divergence - it won't be that noticeable anyways, but expect things to really go off-canon by the time Elyanna is fifteen at the very latest. In other words, we have less than three years before what might count as this 'verse's take on S1 to start. So be ready for that, I guess. Also isn't it adorable how snarky Elyanna (and those in her vicinity) are becoming? They grow up so fast!
> 
> As always I'd love for you to share your thoughts on this chapter! There was a lot of Royal Family Fluff & Angst again since since is a character driven fic. What did you think of Joff's& Elyanna's part? And seriously, I couldn't resist that last sentence. Maybe I'm overdoing it with the foreshadowing but fuck that, one day in the far off future Elyanna will look back on that memory and she'll laugh until she cries.
> 
> [_Robb won't understand why the simple question 'Didn't you dream of marrying a knight when you were a little girl?' caused that reaction, but he doesn't ask. This isn't his first day around Elyanna and he damn well knows better._]


	12. part xii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There is no place for magic in this day and age."

_292 AC_

It’s her mother who gives Elyanna the idea. Inadvertently, of course.

Mother isn’t fond of her youngest brother Uncle Tyrion — though they aren’t at each other’s throat like they used to be, if Ser Jaime is to be believed. Which is rather terrifying. The last time Tyrion visited, he and Mother spent the entire three weeks arguing. Plates were thrown, wine bottles emptied and Elyanna is eighty-seven per cent sure her mother 'accidentally' had Tyrion locked out of his guest quarters.

An action which started a fast escalating prank war between the two. So far as one can consider serious embarrassment for all those involved and even grave threats of physical harm mere 'pranks'. Really, it’s a miracle nobody died. Joffrey had found it hilarious. Hilarious enough to help Uncle Tyrion out a time or two — not that he left any proof behind. Elyanna has no illusions though. Joffrey isn’t as sneaky as he thinks he is. That and Tyrion could’ve never pulled off the horse incident without inside help. None of the servants would’ve dared.

Elyanna herself had firmly refused to get involved into the mess. The way she sees it, nothing good ever comes from picking sides in a family fight. Though her mother had still been miffed — and possibly suspicious — about how much time she’d spent with her uncle. In her defense: Tyrion is wonderful, has a great sense of humor and actually tells her things straight from the get-go, without her having to needle him for hours like she sometimes has to with Ser Jaime. Nope, Tyrion believes that you should wield the truth like a sword against your enemies, both because it cuts sharper than any metal and because it’s better to carry it like a weapon than let someone else use it against you. That’s perhaps his best quality. Well, that and his love for stories. _No one _tells better stories than Tyrion.

And every time he comes by for a visit, he’s got a collection of new tales to tell her.

Which is why it really should’ve occurred to Elyanna sooner to ask Uncle Tyrion for help. Alas, it takes her mother casually inquiring about him to remind Elyanna of his existence. Which sounds horrible, but sometimes it’s hard to keep track of the world outside the Red Keep. There’s so many people to keep track of inside the red walls — Grand Maester Pycelle comes to mind, not that Elyanna will ever admit that she shadows the old man whenever she finds the time — and the days go by way too fast.

"Has our brother written back to you, Jaime?" Mother asks one afternoon, while she’s taking a walk through the flower garden with Elyanna. They usually stop by the training yard on their way back to the room to observe Joffrey’s progress for a few moments and then go their separate ways until dinner.

On most days, Elyanna enjoys the rare alone time with her mother and sworn shield. Today, though, she has a hard time focusing. After a couple of half-hearted conversations that lead nowhere, it appears that her mother gives up and turns to her brother instead. Not that Elyanna can blame her. And she’s thankful Mother doesn’t press, she is, but she also knows very well why she shows such restraint: The flower garden, filled with blooming blossoms of all colors, lush hedges and constantly spreading undergrowth, are no safe place for any sort of conversation. There are too many hidden corners and shadowed paths to keep everyone in view at all times. Elyanna and Joffrey used to play hide and seek here all the time, back when they had more free time to fill up. So Elyanna knows better than most what sort of scenes and conversations one can witness in these gardens if one has the patience and a comfortable place to settle down in.

She makes a mental note to ask Joffrey if he wants to play with her again sometime soon. Before they really are too old to get away with these games anymore. There’s still time before that’ll happen, but Elyanna already dreads the moment she’ll have to be a grown-up all the time. Even more so because it happens so much earlier here than in the world she remembers.

By the time she’s sixteen she’ll likely be married already. Possibly even pregnant, the way her Septa likes to tell it. Elyanna doesn’t know how to feel about that.

[It shouldn’t be that hard, surely? She’s technically over thirty years old, mentally at least. Not that she feels that way. If anything she feels like she’s seventeen again— and constantly on the run from one danger or another. And yet the thought of having to _have sex _sends shudders of dread down her spine. She’s not sure if it’s the fact that she’s a girl but not or the fact that it’s sex in general or the way people talk about it like it’s some kind of business transaction that gives her the hives. For now, at least, that’s not a problem. It will be soon though, and she’ll have to find a way to handle it. But for now Elyanna pushes the yucky thoughts from her mind with determination.]

"-expect from him?" Ser Jaime is saying by the time Elyanna tunes back into the conversation around her. "Tyrion does what pleases him when it pleases him. You know how he is."

"Don’t I ever," her mother mutters darkly in response.

Elyanna ignores that with practiced ease, perking up at the reminder of her uncle. "Is Uncle Tyrion coming for a visit?" she asks, making no effort whatsoever to hide her eagerness at the thought. She’s not trying to be cruel or anything, but her mother’s differences with her brother aren’t Elyanna’s own and Tyrion is so rarely around.

Probably the only other member of her immediate family she sees less than Tyrion is her grandfather Tywin, whom she’s only met once during an official event she can’t even remember — though Tyrion and Jaime both assure her she hasn’t missed anything — and her uncle from her father’s side Stannis, who lives at Dragonstone. She’s eaten a few meals with him over the years, but Elyanna can count on one hand the number of times they’ve actually had a conversation. And she’s including a "_Please excuse me, I’m not feeling well._" on that list.

"Perhaps." Her mother tilts her head in consideration. "I have written him of Gwyneth’s birth a moon ago. He seemed most eager to be introduced to his new niece in person — must be looking forward to having another child his size to play with."

That last part is said too sharp to be played off as a joke, but Elyanna shrugs it off. Sibling relationships are tricky, she knows that. Even if she can’t understand the spite between Mother and Uncle Tyrion. Besides Ser Jaime is already glowering, she doesn’t need things to escalate into a fight.

"That’s wonderful!" she exclaims instead. "Do you know when he’ll come?"

"Weren’t you listening?" From the way Mother glances at her, Elyanna’s sure she already knows the answer. Luckily, she sounds amused instead of irritated at having to repeat herself. "He’s running wild in the Reach right now, chasing one myth or another. If it wasn’t for the dragon bones under our very feet, he likely would not grace us with his presence at all."

Ser Jaime actually rolls his eyes at that.

"He’d come all the way from Dorne just for the chance of meeting a new niece to spoil and terrorize with wild tales from all over the seven Kingdoms."

Elyanna grins at that description even as her mother purses her lips and delicately changes the subject. It’s true after all. Uncle Tyrion may come when he’s ready and not a moment before, but Elyanna doesn’t doubt for a moment that he will come. If only to see Gwyneth in person. Tyrion’s completely smitten with Myrcella, there’s no way he’ll resist the lure of yet another babe. Even if they’ll take him away from one adventure or another for a time.

_Hold on a second_.

"Elyanna?" Her mother’s worried voice pulls Elyanna out of her thoughts. "Are you well?"

Reminds her that she’s frozen in place in the middle of the path, staring straight ahead, body motionless and mind racing. Elyanna blinks. Forces herself to focus.

"I apologize, Mother. I was lost in thought."

_Uncle Tyrion. Who loves books and stories of all kinds, who hunts down legends and forgotten songs just because they catch his fancy. Who hoards knowledge like the most jealous of dragons._

_Merlin, I’m a bloody idiot_.

The moment she parts ways with her mother, Elyanna races back to her private quarters. She has a letter to write.

*

When she isn’t trailing him, Elyanna likes to avoid Grand Maester Pycelle whenever possible. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for him.

She’s not sure if he knows how much he unnerves her and seeks her out on purpose or if he’s genuinely oblivious and wishes to curry favor with the royal children. If it’s the latter, Pycelle’s going about it the wrong way, that much Elyanna knows for certain.

That said, Pycelle is one of the most well-learned men of his order. Considering that the Order of Maesters is widely known as the "knights of the mind" that is no little achievement. And Elyanna, who shares Harry Potter’s trice-cursed curiosity if nothing else, can’t resist poking him a little. Not for long anyway.

So maybe she wants to provoke him a bit when she asks him "What about magic?" after another one of his long-winded speeches that amounts to a simple '_No can do_'.

"Excuse me, young princess?"

That. She hates that too. They way he never fails to call her _young_, as though anyone in this keep doesn’t know her birthdate. As though that somehow makes her lesser, inferior. Maybe if Pycelle wouldn’t keep doing that, she’d have bitten her tongue and swallowed the words down.

But he hasn’t and Elyanna’s mouth continues moving without her input.

"Since your _science_—" and she’s using that term loosely here, "—appears to fail you, maybe we should look at other options. Aren’t there certain plants rumored to have magical capabilities?" Despite her cold tone, Elyanna takes care to keep her question general. It wouldn’t do to admit out loud that she’s spent a fair amount of time listening to a haggard, old wood witch and her apparent cures when she sneaks out of the Red Keep. She’s pretty sure half of said cures are pure make-belief, but one or two of the plant names have rung a bell. Besides they’re talking about a simple remedy for fever, nothing groundbreaking.

Elyanna is determined to ignore that fever may well be a death sentence in this day and age. Considering that it’s her mother currently resting on that sickbed, she thinks she has the right to. It won’t help anyone if she breaks down right now. Myrcella and Gwyneth need her and though Joffrey tries, Father is no help at all.

Pycelle sighs the sigh of an old man confronted with the follies of youth and Elyanna wants to slap him, slap him so hard her nails leave bloody scratches on his cheek.

"Your desire to help her Grace is admirable, young princess. But I fear it would only lead to a needless waste of time and money. What the smallfolk considers magical for lack of better knowledge has been studied by me and mine for many years to separate true ailments from the words of desperate men willing to believe whatever one tells them." The Grand Maester shakes his head, grey hair falling into his face. "What remains are cures not worth the ingredients wasted on them. No, my princess, as tempting as it is to turn towards magic when the world fails us, it is a useless endeavor. There is no such thing as magic. It is an excuse to hide from what we do not understand, not an answer in its own right."

Joffrey crosses his arms in front of his chest and fixates the maester with a dark glare. As always ready to back her up. "What about the dragons?" he demands. "Are you saying those aren’t magical either?"

Pycelle gives him a look that has Joffrey bristling, though he grits his teeth and keeps quiet when Elyanna digs her elbow in his side.

"My prince, the dragons, curious creatures that they were, are dead," Pycelle states in that simpering voice of his that makes Elyanna lose all sense and reason. "And whatever magic they might have had, it died with them. To make room for a new age, with new forces to guide us. That is the way of the world, I’m afraid. Greatness fades, empires fall, dynasties end." He looks lost in thought for a moment. "Change is inevitable, my prince, and to evolve our only option. The world is not what it was three hundred years ago. The rule of the dragons has ended and whatever magic they might have carried is long dead and gone now." The Grand Maester shakes his head ruefully. "Mayhaps it is for the better. There is no place for magic in this day and age."

Whatever effect Pycelle has been aiming for with his grand speech, it misses its mark by a mile. All Joffrey does is snort and mutter "There _is_ no place or you _won’t make_ place for it?" under his breath, petulant and utterly unapologetic for it.

Not that it is particularly surprising. With every adult in their lives telling them that magic is dead, Elyanna had to vent her frustration over their blindness to someone, didn’t she? She hadn’t really expected Joffrey to take her serious — When have people ever believed Harry without cause and ample proof to back him up? — but he’s surprised her.

Her little brother has a habit of doing that.

*

Until her mother falls ill, Elyanna hasn’t realized how much less time she spends with her father these days. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say how much less time her father spends with them — his wife in particular — these days.

It’s probably for the best. Hearing them scream at each other never fails to make Myrcella cry. And Gwyneth? Elyanna doesn’t know if her father ever so much as held his youngest daughter. Now, with Mother confined to her sickbed — though Grand Maester Pycelle has assured them all that she’s on the mend — Father once again regularly joins them for their meals.

It could be nice without the tension between her parents if only Father would pay attention to someone else rather than her every once in a while. But every time Joffrey shares one of his latest successes in his training, it gets waved off in favor of Elyanna’s own. And for all that she’s proud of the things she can do, it also makes Elyanna uncomfortable. Reminds her eerily of Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, and look how that turned out. It’s the way Joffrey wilts every time Father dismisses his achievements that really gets under her skin though.

Like right now.

"Ser Barristan says my form is much improved as well." Joffrey doesn’t glance in their father’s direction as he speaks. For all intents and purposes he’s focused on the meat on his plate.

Elyanna doesn’t have the same restraint. But of course Father pays more attention to his wine than what his son’s saying.

"I thought—" Joffrey trails off. Sets down his knife and finally turns towards the head of the table, determined. "My tenth name day is approaching. I was hoping you would take me with you on your next hunt, Father."

That, at last, gets their father’s attention.

"Hunting? _You_? A green boy that wouldn’t know a bloody boar from a stag if it killed him?"

Elyanna winces. Father’s voice is too loud, too incredulous. She can see the way Joffrey stills, muscles tensing and jaw clenching. Her gaze flickers back and forth between her brother’s blank face and her father’s careless derision. 

"There’s more to battle than proper form." Father scoffs. "Any halfwit can learn how to swing a fucking sword and notch an arrow. You’re no more prepared to enter a real fight than your sister is."

"Then perhaps it’s a good thing that I’m asking to join a hunt, not a tournament."

And that tone of voice? Ringing with a coldness that freezes anything that dares reaching for it? Joffrey’s learned that one from the best: their mother.

"Like you could hold your own in a tournament. No, I won’t hear any more of this nonsense. Your mother would haunt me from the grave if anything were to happen to you and I won’t spend the entire day making sure you don’t fall of your horse."

"I’m a fine rider!"

"Hunting is a man’s job!" Father roars, slams his fist down on the table hard enough to make it shake. "I won’t have you slowing our party down for the sake of a child’s whim and that is final! I’d take your sister with me before I’d ever take you!"

Joffrey rears back as if hit. _It might have been kinder if he had been_.

For a long moment, nobody says anything and the only sound is Father’s harsh breathing. Then, slowly, as if in trance, they return their attention to their meals.

Elyanna spends the rest of the evening staring down at the table so she won’t have to look at her brother’s pale face. Not for the first time she wishes her father would leave her out his fights.

*

"Do I really look that much like her?" Elyanna regrets the question before she’s finished the sentence, but she doesn’t take it back. Just because she doesn’t _want_ to hear the answer doesn’t mean she doesn’t _need_ to.

Ser Jaime looks up from where he’s been cleaning his sword in soothing, well-routinized motions.

"Look like who?"

"Lyanna Stark."

Elyanna can’t remember the last time she heard this particular name spoken out loud. Under her father’s reign, the name might as well be the equivalent to the _Voldemort_ of another life, what with how much people dance around it. As though the mere mention would somehow resurrect the ghost of a long-dead girl and reawaken the gruesome battles that were fought in her name.

"Ah." Unsurprisingly, her uncle looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than here. Too bad he’s the only one Elyanna trusts to tell her the truth. Well, him and Tyrion, but he was far too young when the war started.

Ser Jaime breathes out, a soft release of air that fills the silence between them.

"I wouldn’t know. The Starks have never been close to our family— the Seven know they won’t be any time soon either. But from what I remember, people used to say that the wolfsblood was strong in Lyanna. She must have been dark of hair with those grey eyes the Stark’s are so well-known for and a long face besides. Beautiful too, that much everyone seemed to agree on. She must have been, to turn Rhaegar’s head the way she did."

He snorts and takes one of her hands into his own. "Whatever the King might tell himself, you’ve got no more Stark blood than I do. You are your parents’ daughter, Elyanna. Even a blind man can see it. There’s no doubt that you will grow beautiful enough to turn a prince’s head and there’s a fire in you that I’m both eager and terrified to see unleashed on the Kingdom. But you’re not Lyanna Stark returned from the grave to torment the living. If the King can’t let go of her ghost for long enough to see that, that’s on him, not on you."

The serious, heartfelt words — so unlike her uncle’s usual behavior — bring tears to Elyanna’s eyes. It’s stupid, to worry about such a thing, she knows that. But she also already has one set of a dead person’s memories inside her and sometimes, when she gets too wrapped up in those, the haunting _what if _refuses to let her go.

"Thank you, Uncle Jaime."

"Don’t thank me for the truth, Swifty." Jaime reaches out and messes with her hair, loosening two of the carefully pinned down braids. Laughing, Elyanna leans back, tries to escape his grasp.

_But how can I not when it’s the rarest good we own?_

*

With a sigh, Elyanna pulls back her blankets and slips out of her bed. Despite the long day she’s had, her mind simply refuses to quieten down. Bare-foot, she walks towards her window facing one of the smaller gardens and stares into the darkness outside.

Her mother is indeed recovering. And whatever blow Joffrey’s pride has received thanks to their father’s pig-headed obliviousness, he’s doing alright as well. Gwyneth, too, is finally sleeping properly through the night and though Myrcella hangs on her legs all the time, demanding to know where Mother is, Elyanna is dealing with that as well as she can.

None of these faint, ever present worries are what keep her up right now though. Instead it’s a thought that hasn’t bothered her in a long time. Not since she was six, crying herself to sleep at night over all the things Joffrey was allowed to do that she wasn’t, wishing she were a wolf instead of a stupid doe.

Nowadays, she simply wishes her father would’ve had the presence of mind not to name her _Elyanna_.

Why bind me to a ghost, a dead love, for my entire life? Why couldn’t he let Lyanna Stark’s memory rest in peace? Why can’t he _still not fucking let it go_?

It’s amazing — and terrifying — to contemplate how long a shadow a dead girl may cast. When Elyanna looks straight ahead, she can almost see her in the corner of her eyes. The tall, slight form of a girl never given the chance to grow into a woman. Long, black hair cascading down her back in thick waves. Grey eyes as unforgiving and sharp as any steel, watching the world like it’s hers to play with.

"Did you even love him?" Elyanna can’t help but ask herself. "If things had gone different… if you lived… would you and Father have been happy together?"

Because for all that her father clings to his grief like he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he let it go, would a girl too wild to be tamed have ever grown to love a man who delights in throwing her gender in her mother’s face every day? Could they have been the happy ending of a song that Father is so convinced he’s lost? Or is it simply easier, more bearable, to imagine it that way instead of face the reality that could’ve been?

Deep in her heart Elyanna knows the answer.

[And sometimes, when Father is deep enough into his cups that his voice loses that edge of false laughter it’s usually coated in, when his eyes turn dark and stormy and nothing she says will draw his attention from a fading scar on his forearm, Elyanna thinks he knows it too.]

That doesn’t make it any less surprising to hear a female voice to her right answer the question out loud though.

"No."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... things in Elyanna's family continue to crack and tear, she finally has a good idea on how to solve Eon's latest riddle, and we get our first glimpse at something that may just be magical. Things are going to pick up now because we have less than 3 years before the Game of Thrones begins again for real.  
I hope you enjoyed this chapter even though it's still slow-going on the action front (of course this is a character-driven story, so if you're looking for an action driven plot then you probably didn't make it this far or are about to tear your hair out in frustration right now). Any thoughts regarding that last scene? As always your comments are very welcome!! They encourage and motivate me to stick with this story and I really appreciate each and every one of you who takes the time to write me a short message. Thank you again!!


	13. part xiii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I think— I think even now, they're still burning."

_292 AC_

The unexpected voice startles Elyanna so badly, she almost screams.

[It’s a damn good thing she doesn’t because her doors haven’t remained unguarded since she woke up with that cursed lightening scar etched into her forehead and this— this would’ve been hard to explain. That’s for sure.]

Whirling around, Elyanna comes face to face with the last person she expects: a stranger she knows better than her own handmaiden.

Stares at the not-quite-woman before her, so much and not at all like she’s always imagined her. She’s tall, taller than Elyanna by over a head. Though considering her stature, bad state of health and age, that’s no impressive feat. Her eyes shift back and forth between molten silver glittering in the sun and the stormy sea on an autumn eve after the sun has gone down. Her hair is put up in a simple braid, no elaborate tricks about it. She looks pale and gaunt — _faded_, the way ghosts always are, a voice in the back of her mind whispers, a remnant of Harry and a life once lived — and pretty even in spite of all that.

And though Elyanna has never laid eyes on her before this day — except that’s not quite true, is it, for how often has she seen this ghost of a girl stand in her father’s shadow, how often has she seen this face when she closed her eyes — has never seen a portrait or even a very detailed description, there’s no doubt in her mind. She knows who this girl is with a certainty she can’t explain.

"Lyanna Stark," she breathes, a statement, not a question, for it could be no one else.

The girl inclines her head.

Elyanna— really, _really_ doesn’t know what to do with that.

"Why are you here?" It seems like a pertinent question. There’s nothing tying the two of them together, save perhaps Elyanna’s father, but that doesn’t explain why her ghost choses now of all times to haunt her.

Lyanna shrugs. Her shoulders are stronger, more muscular than her own, Elyanna notices. The shoulders of someone used to carrying more weight. She wonders if Lyanna, unlike her, had more of a talent for sword fighting.

"You asked a question. I meant to answer it."

Elyanna swallows, her throat suddenly way too dry. "And what is your answer?"

The dead girl smiles. It’s not a friendly smile.

"I didn’t love Robert. I didn’t even particularly like him. But I suppose I could’ve lived with our match, eventually. Before. After everything that happened though?" She shakes her head, loose hair falling into her face and covering the left side of her face, hiding her eyes before she brushes the strands away. Her smile is gone as though it was never there in the first place. "If I hadn’t died when I did, I would’ve hated him. I would’ve _killed_ him."

Elyanna blinks. Tries to absorb the statement and align it with her world view — a perspective colored largely by her parents and their very differing but equally clear-cut perceptions of the girl in front of her.

Lyanna must sense her surprise because she laughs. It’s a lighter sound this time, one that softens her face and turns her attractive features beautiful.

"Not what you expected?"

The way she says the question sounds lighthearted, teasing. It’s at odds with the subject itself, but then Elyanna supposes the dead don’t have many reasons to linger on grudges no longer relevant. And Lyanna Stark had three siblings, didn’t she? She must have grown up with all the teasing and snarking that implies, especially as the only girl.

"I don’t know what I expected," Elyanna says.

Lyanna laughs again. Are ghosts supposed to be so— _happy_? "So honest! It’s refreshing, really. I’d forgotten that people in this cursed place could still tell the truth."

"Cursed?"

At that, Lyanna's apparent good mood disappears as quickly as it came. Her radical mood shifts are enough to give Elyanna whiplash.

"My father and brother died here, in this very keep," Lyanna Stark says after a moment. "Their blood coats these stones, drips down these walls, lingers in the very air. I can feel it, you know. Their pain. Even now, it still lingers. _Wildfire_." The last word she spits out like the foulest of curses, eerily reminiscent of Ser Jaime and his own tales of his time in the service of the Mad King. Her face, when she catches Elyanna’s eyes, is solemn, but there’s no hiding the fury — the _fear_ — in her eyes.

"I think— I think even now, they’re still burning." Lyanna whispers like she’s imparting a secret the dead have been bound to keep.

[_She was younger than I when she died_, Harry thinks with something that tastes like heartbreak for yet another too-young girl killed in someone else’s war. _Young and beautiful and cursed, forever, in the minds of all those who still remember her name_.]

Elyanna forcefully shakes herself loose from a fog of too many memories and emotions she can’t parse through right now. _One ghost at a time_. Focuses on the more relevant question instead, since as far as she knows Lyanna Stark died in the Tower of Joy. If anything her ghost should be haunting that building, not the Red Keep.

"Then what are you doing here?"

"You called me here." Lyanna turns on her heels and examines the room like she’s noticing her surroundings for the first time. "It’s a nice place. If you ignore the screaming."

Elyanna stares at her. Waits for the ghost to continue. She doesn’t.

"What screaming?"

"Oh." Lyanna tilts her head, brushes a hand down her loose-fitting dress. "You’re alive, aren’t you. You don’t hear it."

"Hear what?"

That brings another smile to Lyanna Stark’s face. Elyanna finds it unsettling how _warm_, for lack of a better word, the girl looks. Considering that she’s, you know, dead.

[Her father likes to describe her as wild and ferocious and utterly vicious. Has her death freed her of that constant need to fight back against the world pressing down on her from all angles? Or has Father simply never known the girl he claims to love at all?]

Although that smile is also very disturbing, what with the answer Lyanna Stark gives a moment later.

"The dead. They’re screaming. I don’t think they ever stop."

*

Elyanna jerks awake with a violent flinch, followed by a startled shout when she loses her balance and promptly topples off the bed.

A moment later her door his thrown open and Ser Jaime pokes his head inside. "Everything alright?"

"Wonderful," Elyanna groans from where her cheek is pressed against the cold stone floor. With a sign she rolls back onto her back and pushes herself into an upright position. Shoots a half-hearted glare at her uncle when she catches the amusement plainly displayed on his expression before it twists into a mask of concern.

With three quick steps he’s by her side, helping her to her feet.

"Are you alright?" he asks, a lot more worried this time. "You look horrible."

"Thanks. Just what every lady likes to hear."

Ser Jaime raises a very unimpressed eyebrow. "Have you seen yourself, Elyanna? You look like you’ve seen a ghost," and okay, flinching at that turn of phrase isn’t the smartest thing to do, but Elyanna can’t help it, "you’re trembling and you’re ice cold."

To drive his point home, Jaime puts a wonderfully warm hand on her forehead. With a sigh, Elyanna presses closer into the touch. She _is_ rather cold.

With a muttered curse, Ser Jaime lifts her up and carries her back onto her bed. Then covers her with all the blankets he can find for good measure.

"Have you been sneaking visits to your mother?"

Elyanna grimaces. She’s not allowed to visit Mother. They’re too afraid she’ll fall sick as well — unlike Mother, her body might not have the strength to fight it off.

"No." She shakes her head empathetically. Ever since she’s come to the realization why her family his so worried about her, it’s become a lot harder to be angry with them over it. All the more so because Elyanna can't tell what her body can handle and what not. She doesn’t remember ever being sick when she was Harry [her magic at work, she knows that _now_], but that’s a defense she can’t count on anymore. Because of that, she’s been heading everyone’s advice and has sent her mother her well-wishes via letter.

Jaime looks at her, measuring and serious.

"I swear, Uncle Jaime. I just, I haven’t slept well tonight."

The tension in her sworn sword’s body eases with a barely audible sigh, but her words don’t do anything to combat the worried crease between his eyebrows. "You stay in bed and make sure to keep warm. I’ll fetch the Grand Maester."

Elyanna scowls but Ser Jaime isn’t having any of it.

"I know you don’t like him, but you look like you’re standing with one leg in your grave, Elyanna." And with those words, he disappears out into the hallway.

Elyanna waits until the sound of his footsteps has faded before she very quietly asks, "Are you still there?"

There is no answer. Nor does she catch sight of any girl, dead or alive, in the time it takes her uncle to return with an annoying Grand Maester in tow. She’d like to say they’re overreacting but it's hard to argue that point when sitting up again is enough to make her dizzy. Fantastic.

Although it would be ironic if, after everything, it would be talking to the dead that would finally do her in.

_Maybe it was just a dream_, she ponders and obediently swallows a cup of tea laced with the leaves of some plant or another that are supposed to help her sleep.

[It wasn’t though. She knows that with the same certainty with which she could tell that she was facing Lyanna Stark and not one of the hundred thousand other dead girls that could potentially haunt her.]

Elyanna shivers and draws the covers tighter around her shoulders. Sleep can’t come soon enough.

*

Uncle Tyrion is still caught up in his research, but he promises to visit within the next five moons and also to bring her a new book or two. More importantly though, the letter he sends her back is four pages long and details all the various tales and tidbits regarding rebirth he can remember.

Elyanna reads it seven times. She’s got nothing better to do, what with being confined to her rooms for a week. A precaution, for sure, but an annoying one. She’s already feeling — and looking, she checked — much better than just a few days ago. She also hasn’t seen the ghost of any dead people again, so Elyanna counts it as a win. Fascinating as talking to the cause for a rebellion that reshaped the entire seven Kingdoms and ended the Targaryen dynasty is, she’s spent three days afterwards suffering dizzy spells and even fainting a time or two.

Whatever enabled her to call Lyanna, it clearly cost her more energy than her body can spare. Elyanna is curious, she is, but not enough to purposefully get herself killed before she’s figured that out. And hey, at least there’s one new thing she’s learned from this entire deal: not all magic is lost to her.

She might not be able to use it as she has in her memories, but seeing dead people is not normal. Not even in a city built on bones upon bones of dragons.

Just like Elyanna has always known that magic isn’t dead, this unexpected experience makes it clear that while she may not be able to use magic from within her, somehow she _can_ tap into the magic surrounding her. It makes sense when she thinks about it. The Targaryens have ruled Westeros for three hundred years. In no small part through their dragons, who are perhaps the most inherently magical creatures Elyanna knows of — besides unicorns. Even if they’re dead now, there’s no way their magic is gone. Particularly in a place like the Red Keep. A place still containing their _skeletons_.

Somehow she must have accidentally tapped into that potential. And while the magic she used hadn’t been her own, clearly it had still taken a toll on her body. Maybe especially because the magic hadn’t technically been hers.

The thought gives Elyanna hope. Hope that this — lightning buzzing under her skin, feeling warm from the inside out until you’ve forgotten what the word 'cold' means — isn’t entirely beyond her. Isn’t a sacrifice that had to be made to achieve the family she’s always dreamed of.

It hadn’t felt like that, not exactly, as far as she remembers. If anything, talking to Lyanna Stark had made her feel cold, frozen, stuck in place. But she doesn’t remember Harry ever summoning a ghost beyond that third first time when he saw his parents. That. That had left him hollowed out and broken too.

[Then he’d died and come back and it’s hard to tell what action had done greater damage to him. Elyanna can’t even begin to sort that mess out, so she doesn’t try. It’s not her place.]

As wonderful as the discovery is, Elyanna is determined not to push it. She won’t attempt to talk to Lyanna gain until she’s regained her strength completely. Incidentally, this leaves her with a lot of time on her hands to pursue Tyrion’s fantastical stories.

Apparently, rebirth isn’t half as rare a topic as she’d assumed. Not where legends are concerned at least.

There’s the tale of a Dornish princess that loses her beloved to a traitorous plot and is reborn time after time to scour the lands of Westeros and find her again.

[Though Elyanna prefers the variation that insists she swore revenge on those who betrayed her with her dying breath, and spent her following life hunting down each and every family member of the ones involved in the plot.]

Apparently a small community in Volantis believes that twins are the souls of two lovers who, in their previous life, have loved each other so deeply, their bond could not be fully disentangled even in death. Separating them is considered a crime worse than murder and most twins raised in that community never marry.

Considering that her mother and Ser Jaime are twins Elyanna decides not to think too hard about that one.

There are multiple tales on various of the Targaryen dragons that are considered to be reincarnations of their legendary ancestors. Interestingly the same is not said about the Targaryens themselves — at least not in the sources Tyrion cites. Elyanna wonders about that. Half the Targaryens went mad after all. It doesn’t seem to far-fetched that someone would claim to be Aegon the Conqueror reincarnated or something equally ridiculous.

Tyrion promises he’ll have more tales by the time he’ll visit — which Elyanna is going to hold him to — but for now, his stories give her something to focus on that isn’t a dead Lyanna Stark potentially haunting her rooms.

Elyanna writes him back as soon as she finishes his letter for the first time. Makes sure to thank him for his effort and inquire about his research. Most of her attention though is focused on the various tales and what exactly they are telling her.

[It’s been a long time since she’s seen Eon, and annoyingly cryptic as he is, she misses him.]

*

"Joffrey!" Elyanna exclaims despite herself when she recognizes her latest visitor.

"Don’t sound so surprised to see me, sister."

In a couple of years, that smirk of his is going to break hearts. Elyanna can tell.

"You’ll forgive me if I didn’t expect you," she shoots back. "It’s not like I’ve seen much of you these past days."

At the dig, her brother flinches. Good. He’s feeling guilty then. She can work with that. Raising her eyebrows in wordless encouragement, Elyanna waits. And waits a couple more minutes, until it becomes clear that no, Joffrey isn’t going to be the first to break down.

Damn his stupid pride. Where the hell did he pick that up?

"Well? Are you going to tell me why you’ve been avoiding me or are we going to continue to sit in uncomfortable silence?"

"I haven’t been avoiding you!" Joffrey snaps. "I’ve been… thinking."

"_Thinking_," Elyanna repeats with more derision than is probably appropriate. "That must have hurt."

So what? She’s been bored. The least Joffrey could’ve done was apologizing upon finally gracing her with his presence.

"Very funny."

"I know, I’m hilarious."

Joffrey’s glare darkens, which really only makes it easier to send him a saccharine smile. He knows damn well Elyanna doesn’t handle being stuck in bed well. The past ten years of their childhood contain ample proof of that.

"I’ve been thinking about what Father said." Joffrey forces the words out like they pain him physically and though Elyanna wants to take another jab at him, she manages let it disperse on her tongue, unsaid.

Discussing their parents — and especially Father — with her brother is already a dangerous topic as it is, the last thing she needs to do is pour oil into the fire. 'Sensitive' doesn’t come close to covering it. Not even Elyanna can tell when Joffrey will get quiet and sulky and when he screams and lashes out during these conversations. And out of their entire family, she’s by far the best at predicting his moods.

"I think you’ll have to narrow that down." She tries for a bit of wry humor.

Joffrey snorts and concedes, which is honestly a better reaction than expected. He takes a deep breath, visibly gathering his thoughts.

"He says I’m just a green boy who’s never bloodied his blade in battle and will never know true fear, pain or even glory," Joffrey finally blurts out. "That I don’t know what I’m talking about and would just be a burden to smarter men. And I’ve asked him to— to teach me, to help me get better, so that I’ll be a good king some day. But when I said that he just laughed. Laughed and told me the only thing I’d ever be good for is as a rallying point for our forces. That if I wanted to be smart, I’d take on people wiser and better suited in my council to make the decisions for me and try not to get into their way. That that at least wouldn’t go over my pretty head and maybe I’d even accomplish something useful and not start a war I don’t have the strength or stomach to finish."

The way her brother talks, repeats these cruel words in an even, unbothered voice — like he’s heard it a thousand times before and the words have lost all meaning to him, like Harry used to say _freak_ and _worthless_ and stupid — make Elyanna’s blood boil. Makes her want to storm right out of the door and straight towards the throne room to give her father a piece of her mind.

Not that it would accomplish anything, mind you, but maybe she’d feel a bit better. A bit less like she’s _letting him_ continue unpunished, even though the rational voice in the back of her mind keeps telling her that her father is a grown man and king and Elyanna isn’t in a position to _let him _do anything.

"And I just—" Joffrey trails off. Then he straightens his back like he’s preparing for a battle and for the first time since entering her quarters, he meets Elyanna’s gaze evenly. "What if he’s right?"

The question lingers between them, heavy and terrible in its implications. Joffrey visibly has to pull himself together to continue.

"Mother always used to say that I’d be King one day — everyone does — but what if I’ll be a bad king? What if I— What if I’m like the Mad King?" His voice shakes. "What if I’m _worse_?"

Elyanna pushes herself into a sitting position. This is not a conversation she wants to have lying down.

"You won’t." Saying those words is the easiest thing in the world. There’s no need for lies or deflection, no need to hide her underlying unease or reluctance. She doesn’t need any masks for this talk because this is perhaps the one thing she truly believes. And maybe Joffrey sees that, reads the conviction in her expression because the tense set of his shoulders eases.

"You don’t know that though."

Credit where credit is due: Her brother is a persistent little bugger, she’s got to give him that.

"Yes, I do. I know because you’re asking me this very question."

When Joffrey’s only response is a furrowed eyebrow, Elyanna elaborates with an exaggerated eye-roll.

"Do you think the Mad King asked himself if he was a good king?" she turns the question around. "He didn’t because if he had, that would’ve implied that he could make a mistake. That he was human and fallible. But King Aerys was crazy, and he was convinced being king was something he was owed, something that belonged to him rather than something that needed to be earned. That’s the real reason he lost his throne. Because he lost his people."

[_Do you think Father asks himself if he’s a good king? _Elyanna wants to ask, but doesn’t. Tempting though it might be, she doesn’t think either one of them would want to hear an honest answer to that question.]

"That you even ask yourself that question already makes you better than those kings ever could be, Joffrey." She reaches for her brother’s hand, links their fingers together.

"Let me give you a bit of advice: Every day you reign as King, ask yourself that very question. Every morning before your advisers whisk you away, before you listen to people argue about the same trivial things day in day out in court, before you break fast with your wife, ask yourself that question. Then go about your day and don’t think on it again, don’t doubt yourself. Not until the next morn, when you ask yourself the same thing again."

Joffrey squeezes her hand gently, but the creases around the corners of his mouth don’t relax. "I don’t think Father second-guesses himself like that," he comments, the thinly-veiled meaning all too clear.

And there’s many things Elyanna could say in response to that statement. But there’s just as many reasons why she’s chosen the Mad King’s fate as her example, not their father’s reign, and so what she settles on instead is a simple: "It’s only right that you’ll one day surpass Father, Joff. That’s what a good son, a good _heir_, does."

Joffrey allows those words to ease the last of his tension. But when he sinks back into his chair, closes his eyes as though to avoid having to see her face, Elyanna knows there’s something else eating at him. She doesn’t have to wait for long.

"Why doesn’t Father tell me these things?" Joffrey asks. "Why am I never good enough? Why doesn’t _he_ believe in _me_?"

And that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it?

Elyanna wishes fiercely that there was some answer she could give Joffrey that would soothe the wound their father’s continued dismissal has left behind. That there was an explanation that would help him understand, grant him some peace of mind. But the truth is, Elyanna doesn’t understand Father any better than Joffrey does. And she seriously doubt that any words, no matter how true, would make up for everything their father has and hasn’t done.

That isn’t the point though. Elyanna isn’t Father, she can’t do his job for him. What she can do is help her brother cope with the way things are. And maybe it’s the lingering memory of Lyanna Stark’s ghost that inspires her, gives her an idea that might well be true, for all that she’d never have the guts to ask for confirmation.

"I think," she starts, and now that she thinks on it, it’s so obvious, how had she never considered this before? "that Father hates the Iron Throne."

"What?!"

"I think all Father ever sees is everything the throne cost him," Elyanna clarifies. "Everything he lost, in the rebellion and afterwards. And I think in his own way he doesn’t want you on that throne, not because he doesn’t love you but because he does. To him the Iron Throne is a curse, a trap that never measured up to everything he sacrificed to get it, and he doesn’t want that same fate for you."

Joffrey’s eyes seem to grow wider with every word she says and Elyanna can see the same realization in them.

"He always says how he misses all the things he isn’t allowed to do as a King anymore." Joffrey shakes his head slowly, as if in a daze. "And he’s never really happy. He only laughs when he talks about _before_."

For a moment they are quiet, both caught up in memories.

"But that’s not gonna be you, Joff," Elyanna says, promises, swears. "You’re going to be so much better than that."

"Of course I will." Joffrey shrugs with a hint of his usual cockiness. "I have you."

*

Two weeks pass before Elyanna feels confident enough in her own health and her usual watchers are sufficiently preoccupied with a banquet in honor of Joffrey’s tenth name day — an opportunity she’s loathe to miss.

When Ser Jaime excuses himself, Elyanna gives it all of ten minutes before she pulls her favorite servant dress out from underneath one particularly ugly, frilly dress that an envoy from the Westerlands had gifted her. She’s never going to wear it, but it would be impolite to give it away until after she’s outgrown it. Even then, poor Myrcella or Gwyneth may have to suffer the monstrosity. Elyanna feels for them, she really does, but for now the dress makes for the perfect cover.

She uses ash from her fireplace to dirty her face, the still-red scar on her forehead especially. It’s moments like these that make her miss modern muggle make-up. Hermione used to do an amazing job with the scar that had defined his life once upon a time. After she’d received a couple of lessons from Lavender, that is.

Getting out of her room unseen is the real trick, but Elyanna knows the schedule of her guards better than most. And a chamber pot always makes for a convenient excuse to slip in and out of a noble’s room.

Elyanna won’t be expected to make another appearance until late-afternoon. Ella the servant girl slips out of the Red Keep with two errand boys and a companionable nod towards Ratface, who is busy unloading a carriage of wood in the lower yard, on her way out.

King’s Landing hasn’t changed much since her last visit. It’s still as crowded and dirty as always — though the reality of the stench always manages to surpass her worst memories of it. Not that it smells that much better inside the keep, but it doesn’t cling to every stone the way it does in Flea Bottom. Ironic how Elyanna, despite all of Harry’s modern sensibilities, feels better, more comfortable out here than locked away inside the Red Keep.

Finding Eon is no hard task. He’s still sitting in the same place where she first met him, propped up against the wall, legs curled inwards to take up less space and avoid being trampled. The cloth around his eyes looks worn thin with use, like it’ll fall apart any day now.

Eon doesn’t flinch when she drops down besides him, her shoulder brushing against his bare forearm. He tilts his head instead, a mockery of a bow.

"You took your time, m’lady."

"All good things come to those who wait, Eon." Elyanna grins. It’s nice to be on the other side of this conversation for once, what with how often her impatience has gotten her into trouble.

"As you say."

Eon turns away from her then, faces the tirelessly moving crowd. Even though Elyanna rationally knows that he can’t see anything, she tries to follow his gaze. To find the oddity in the mass of people that has caught his attention.

There’s a large man with a huge mustache who passes a couple of gold coins towards a gold cloak. A bored knight of the city watch, kicking small stones down from the wall, one of which hits a young woman with wide lips and a deep scowl, who promptly whirls around to yell at a couple of boys loitering in the vicinity of the food stands.

Nothing that stands out. Nothing that catches Elyanna’s interest.

She wonders what Eon notices that she doesn’t. [She wonders if one day she’ll learn to notice it too.]

"Do you have an answer for me?"

"I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t." That’s the truth of it, perhaps more than she’d like it to be.

Nevertheless Elyanna takes a moment to sort her thoughts. Consider Tyrion’s tales, Sister Barba’s clipped answers, [her own experiences]. It’s still a guess and Elyanna doesn’t know what will happen if she’s wrong. But she’s also grown bored with the riddle and weighing all her options until she’s sure to have the upper hand isn’t her style. She’d still be sitting under some Fidelius or another, studying for an impossible battle, if that were the case.

[She wouldn’t have died but she also wouldn’t be here. Elyanna hasn’t figured out yet if that’s a good thing or not.]

"_Rebirth_," she murmurs, the word slipping from her tongue easy and natural, like sipping water on a hot summer day, "is a fresh beginning, the start of something new. _Reincarnation_ is to continue where one left off, another chapter of a never-ending story."

Eon hums under his breath, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Elyanna remains where she is. Allows the words to hang in the air between them, to let Eon decide whether to accept them in the spirit they’ve been offered or shut them down.

Just when she’s sure she can’t hold still any longer, can’t fake being relaxed and sure of herself, Eon finally responds.

"An answer has been received and thus an answer must be given." He turns his head and even though the ever-present rag is covering his face, Elyanna could swear on her life that he has grey eyes as steely and unforgiving as the sword Ser Jaime so loves to wield.

"The price for life is death, m’lady. As it always has been."

And for one wild, utterly ridiculous moment, Elyanna is sure that he knows. That the moment she accidentally called Lyanna Stark to her has somehow fundamentally changed her, marked her, left a clearly visible sign behind for all those who know what to look for. Then reality sets in and Elyanna shakes the notion off — the last thing she needs is a new reason to be paranoid.

"What am I supposed to do with that?"

The question makes Eon laugh softly. "The same thing we all do with every answer we hold, m’lady: Whatever we wish to."

Elyanna frowns. "Is that a new riddle?"

"No." Eon shakes his head, but keeps on smiling. "But I’ll think of one if you’d like."

"Sure."

"Until then, I only ask two things of you, m’lady."

Elyanna rolls her eyes. "Of course you do. Well, let's hear it then."

"Think on what you are and what you want to be. But don’t tell me unless you wish to do so."

Elyanna raises her eyebrows. "And the second thing?"

This time, Eon's voice is barely audible, nothing but a breath of a word. So close, she can feel it gently flutter against her cheek, with all the weight of a snowflake caught in her eyelashes.

"_Leave_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, Eon did NOT want to be written in this scene. I felt like trying to wrestle a stubborn five-year-old into a turtleneck. But at least you got your first taste at obvious magic, a couple more hints carefully sprinkled through everything, plus another nice Joffrey scene to give us some more insight into the beauty that is the Baratheon/Lannister family.  
What did you think of Joffrey and Elyanna's suspicions regarding Robert? What about Lyanna? Please let me know what you think in the comments!!


	14. part xiv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "All I can think is that I feel like I’m the butt of a cosmic joke."

_292 AC - 293 AC_

She breathes in.

_What are you?_

Out.

_What do you want to be?_

Let’s go.

_Leave_.

Pulls another arrow from her quiver.

_What are you?_

*

After her trip to the lower parts of the city, Elyanna waits eight days before she reaches out to the dead again. There’s no point in overdoing it and joining them sooner than necessary.

Besides it’s not like she feels a pressing urge to speak with Lyanna Stark again. It’s interesting, of course, in an oddly detached manner. But. All musings and curiosity regarding historic accuracy aside, the girl has been dead for longer than Elyanna has been alive. What right does Elyanna have, to force her to return to the living? Whatever consequences Lyanna’s actions had, she died for them and deserves to be laid to rest now.

[_What kind of world would this be if everyone got what they deserve?_ Elyanna remembers her mother asking her once, when Elyanna inquired quietly about what Uncle Tyrion had done to deserve such dismissal from her— such scorn from his father. _Would we even recognize such a world, I wonder_. _Do you think we would prefer the fate such a world would hand us, knowing it is no less than we deserve? Do you think it would make us happier to know that we are the cause of our own demise?_

Elyanna had opened and closed her mouth several times by the time her mother had broken the somber mood with a stilted laugh and leaned down to kiss her scarred forehead.

_Forgive me, Sweetling. My dreams are dark these days. I didn’t mean to frighten you_.]

But if there’s one thing Elyanna knows for sure it’s that the dead are meant to stay dead. Where they belong. They don’t just show up nilly-willy among the living without cause. And if Lyanna’s words are true — if _Elyanna_ brought her here somehow — then that merits further investigation.

_How did she do it? Can she do it again? Can she control it? Are there others she could summon?_ are just a few of the questions that restlessly swirl in her mind even now.

Elyanna has spent the past weeks going over that entire evening again and again, trying to determine how exactly she had managed to summon Lyanna on accident. All she’s got so far, though, is that she spent a lot of time thinking about the girl that seems to have shaped both of her parents so fundamentally, if for very different reasons. Wishing she would know more about her. Wishing she could just _ask_.

_If that’s all it takes, it’s a miracle I’m not haunted by spirits every hour of the day_. An exaggeration perhaps, but not that far off the truth. She’s missing something — Elyanna knows that — but it’s all she’s got.

So, after wishing her family a good night, Elyanna closes and locks the door to her private chambers and sits down comfortably in the middle of her bed. If she passes out during this — which, given her issues with balance and standing up after her last chat with Lyanna, is a distinct possibility — at least she’ll be comfortable.

Then she takes a deep breath, closes her eyes and pictures Lyanna Stark. Pictures her sitting right across from Elyanna, inspecting her surroundings with a sardonic smirk that wouldn’t look out of place on Joffrey’s face.

Elyanna opens her eyes, unsurprised to find that she’s alone. No, this didn’t feel right. She frowns. It needs to be—more. She needs to be more. More detailed maybe? More focused?

Closing her eyes, Elyanna tries again. This time she focuses on Lyanna Stark. Really focuses on her. The way her loose hair falls over her shoulders. The slant of her eyebrows that give the faint impression of a perpetual wide-eyed innocence. The displeased curl of her lips when she says the name of Elyanna’s father. The way her voice breaks when she speaks of her dead family. That smile, so genuine, so unsettling, when she talked about the dead screaming around her.

Elyanna breathes out. She can see her now if she squints her eyes just right. She turns her head, tries to lock in on that image, but the closer she looks, the more blurred the lines become.

"Lyanna?" she asks and even though she swears she can hear the dead girl’s laughter ringing in her ears, the space in front of her is empty.

Elyanna is alone.

And no matter how hard she focuses, how clearly she visualizes or how loudly she calls out — the only one to answer her is a concerned Ser Mandon, who’s guarding her door this night.

The moon is high on the sky by the time Elyanna finally gives up. Falls flat onto her back with a tired sigh, the beginning of a headache building behind her temples. Either this is a lot harder than she imagined it would be or— Or. Or she wants magic to be real so badly, she’s convincing herself of an impossibility that isn’t really there.

[Or she really is going mad.]

*

After that first failure, Elyanna tries again. And again. And again. Until it almost becomes a ritual — a game — to think of Lyanna Stark each night before she falls asleep. To picture the way the dim light painted half her face in shadows, sharper than Elyanna had always imagined her to be. To think of the way her feelings flowed and jumped without cause or reason, each one more intense than the last.

Each one a mere reflection of the real emotion.

It’s no surprise, not really, when the ghost of Lyanna Stark follows her into her dreams.

There’s a wolf prowling in the dark, howling at the moon. Lonely. Abandoned. Forever searching. What for she doesn’t know. Running fast and wild and unstoppable— until it fades, fades into a wolf, a deer, a dog and a rat, running side by side [_pack_ — for a while, at least].

Those dreams are her favorites.

There’s Elyanna, walking down the abandoned hallways of the Red Keep. It’s quiet, silent like the keep never is outside her nightmares, and even though Elyanna doesn’t find the bodies, she knows that she’s the only one left. She can feel them following her with her eyes, the ghosts of all those who were before them. And even though the silence hurts her ears and makes them bleed, she can hear the _screams_.

Those dreams are the worst.

[There’s her Father, on his knees, eyes wide in disbelief and a mess of emotions she can’t hope to identify, body swaying, hands covered in his own blood. There’s something messy and wet and squishy in her hand, blood dripping from her fingers, and it’s only when Father looks up again — looks at her — when he opens his mouth and whispers, hopeful, terrified, resigned, broken, "_Lyanna_," that she realizes she holds his heart in her hands.

Those dreams are the most common.]

Elyanna stares at the pale girl with the dark bruises under her eyes that greets her in the mirror. She’ll have to fend off her family’s concern again today — is going to run out of excuses that’ll satisfy her mother worryingly soon — but she doesn’t know what to tell them.

The truth is that Lyanna Stark deserves to be laid to rest and the truth is that Elyanna is just another person on a too-long list of people who haven’t made their peace with that simple fact. [Maybe that makes her a hypocrite. Maybe, in a round-about, twisted way, they do live in a world in which everyone gets exactly what they deserve.] But the truth isn’t an option.

It worries Elyanna, just a bit, that this seems to be the case more and more often as she grows. A lie is still better than to incur her father’s angry melancholy, to drive the smile from her mother’s face, though, so she pushes that thought away. There are more pressing matters than the risks of telling a few white lies that require her attention.

*

Gwyneth’s first word is "No". She says it with true joy and admirable enthusiasm — like she’s been waiting all these moons for the opportunity to finally tell them that she doesn’t want to go to bed now and doesn’t want to eat what her nurse maid puts in front of her — and Elyanna giggles every time her little sister interrupts a conversation with a very firm "No!" when she’s done being a good, little girl.

[Joffrey was absolutely right, not that Elyanna will admit that: Babysitting in the Red Keep is a complete nightmare and Myrcella is perhaps the sweetest terror that has ever haunted this keep. Elyanna excuses herself from that particular duty as often as possible — though she doesn’t mind helping Myrcella escape her watchers when they aren’t _her_. Even Joffrey can be convinced to duck out of sight as soon as his teacher turns the other way and spend a couple of hours on the run with them.

It’s a lot easier to pass by unseen when most of the good-natured servants are on your side. Her sort-of friend Mern is even learning to lie to the gold cloaks with a straight face whenever they stop by in the kitchen to stock up on provisions. A development which Elyanna heartily approves of.

She can’t wait until Gwyneth is old enough to join them on their adventures.]

Gwyneth’s second word is "Anna". Joffrey teases her relentlessly with this 'wonderful', new nickname and her apparent 'natural talent to be a mother'. Elyanna gets her revenge for the former when Gwyneth finally gets around to "Off-fey" a couple of days later. The latter she accepts as a compliment with a shrug and a smug, "I’m a natural at everything, I thought you knew that already," which quickly dissolves into a squabbling about her non-existent talent for sword play and Joffrey’s lack of progress in his embroidery skills.

The first time Gwyneth calls out "Mother" during a meal, Elyanna could swear her mother cries. Joffrey claims that’s wishful thinking and she’s just being dramatic, but Elyanna knows what she saw.

The first time Gwyneth says "Father" is a moon and a half later. Father isn’t there to hear it.

*

The moment Elyanna hears that her father has returned from his most recent hunt — they’re well on their way to becoming a regular event — injured, she excuses herself from Sister Barba and rushes off. To Grand Maester Pycelle’s chambers, not her father’s.

He’ll still be around for her to greet later, and in a better mood besides. Injuries make him unbearable and Elyanna prefers to wait until the alcohol levels out Father’s anger towards the limitations of his body before she sees him again. Her father’s anger is a sight, but his sullen disgust for everyone safe herself is quite another thing. Makes her want to utter some sharp comments that might get even her smacked. And the older she grows, the harder it becomes to resist that temptation.

Besides Pycelle has proven himself a hard man to predict. He’s got no clear schedule from what Elyanna can tell. Which makes finding the opportune time to snoop in his private quarters more difficult than it has any right to be.

Luckily, she can count on her father to be an unreasonable patient and keep the Grand Maester occupied for a while.

Pycelle’s quarters are as simple and sparselyfurnished as one would expect from a member of the Order of Maesters. That the company he keeps isn’t half as cheap as his bed says a lot about his priorities, Elyanna thinks with a grimace. Why spend coins on some comfort that’s frowned upon by your brothers’ when you can use those to break your vows entirely for a momentary pleasure?

_Men_. _They’ve got all the good sense the Gods gave a goose. Less, maybe_.

And okay, that’s definitely her mother talking. It’s not gender that’s the problem, Elyanna reminds herself. Morons come in all shapes and forms and before you know it, they’ll rule the world through sheer numbers. If they don’t already.

Which is still a more pleasant thing to contemplate than the sex life of the _oh so esteemed _Grand Maester.

With an internal smack at the back of her head and a stern reminder to _bloody_ focus, Elyanna returns her attention to the task at hand. There’s Pycelle’s unmade bed, which she won’t touch for all the incriminating evidence in the world. What sort of idiot would he have to be to keep any important stuff there anyways? The maids regularly strip down the sheets to wash them, no way they wouldn’t have found something of notice by now.

The desk pushed into a corner away from all windows is covered in loose papers, letters and books. Too obvious a choice for anything truly sensitive. Elyanna doesn’t touch anything, but she takes a moment to read what she can without moving a single piece of paper.

There’s an open book on the treatment of broken bones that gives her a clue regarding her father’s injury. Notes on what Elyanna is pretty sure is a list of whores her father has—entertained. Unless Pycelle keeps track of his own sex life that way, which would almost disturb her more. Why do people always care so much about who sleeps with whom anyway? How is it anyone’s business, so long as it involves two consenting adults. Though that latter condition is pretty laughable in a country that considers girls 'women grown’ by the time they have their period. And let’s not even touch on the concept of consent. Which reminds Elyanna, she’ll need to have a conversation with her mother, and soon.

There are also some notes written in a short hand Elyanna doesn’t understand but might be a book-keeping of some kind. But it’s a half-written letter to the Citadel requesting information on ritualistic symbolism that really catches Elyanna’s interest. The questions aren’t specific and there’s no indication that they refer to her or even to a certain symbol at all. Just scientific curiosity, Pycelle claims in the letter.

Sure, maybe she’s being paranoid and unreasonable. But that’s the whole reason for this charade, isn’t it? And really, how many people in the Red Keep walk around with a bloody rune edged into their forehead?

_Asking out of scientific curiosity only, of course_.

Biting her lip, Elyanna turns her back on the desk — there’s nothing she can do about that letter, except keep an eye out for the response — and gives the attached bookshelf a cursory glance. Most of them seem to be collections of plants and their proprieties, maps of countries and stars, and depictions of the human body. Some of the older scrolls look like they’ll fall apart the moment she touches them. Of course, so does Pycelle, and Elyanna has a feeling the Grey Rat is going to survive them all.

There’s ash in the fireplace. Doesn’t look like anything other than wood has been burned in here though. Elyanna wonders if Pycelle is the kind of man to burn the really valuable information or to hoard it. From what she’s seen so far, she’s leaning towards hoarding. That means he either has a good hiding place or he doesn’t feel secure enough to start keeping incriminating information just yet.

With a sigh and one last glance towards that unfinished letter, Elyanna sneaks out of the room. She’ll return when she knows what she’s looking for. She’ll return once she knows where to find it.

*

She breathes in.

_What are you?_

_A princess._

[_Aren’t I?_]

Out.

_What do you want to be?_

_A Queen._

[_Don’t I?_]

Let’s go.

_Leave_.

[_What?_]

Pulls another arrow from her quiver.

_What are you?_

*

It’s on a bad night when it happens. Actually, it’s been a bad day long before Elyanna violently jerks away from a nightmare she can’t fully remember. There’s as sensation of a pulsing pain in her back and grey eyes watching her from across the street, but the details fade away before she’s fully conscious.

It starts with her feeling distinctly _off_ all morning. Like she’s seeing the world just fine, but somehow all the colors are just a shade brighter or darker than they’re supposed to be. It’s distracting, annoying and uncomfortable. So much so that, for the first time in _years_, Joffrey almost beats her at archery.

Of course that leads to him being so concerned he almost loses his hand when he fucks up during training a few hours later because he won’t stop stealing glances at her. Ser Barristan gives him a stern talk for that stunt, but it doesn’t hold a candle to Elyanna’s lecture once they’ve got a moment of privacy, if she dare say so herself.

Gywneth is teething again, which makes the two hours Elyanna is supposed to spend with her sisters pretty much unbearable. She’s been to war councils that were less emotionally exhausting — though, given that said councils were usually held by teenagers with little to no idea what they were doing, that’s not as much of a feat as it sounds like.

When that’s finally over and done with, Elyanna has the dubious pleasure of attending a tense dinner with her parents and a subdued brother. A dinner that ends in shouting, hurled accusations and a slap that echoes in the too large, too empty room.

"Stop!"

Elyanna doesn’t remember jumping to her feet. She doesn’t remember deciding to speak. All she knows is she can’t do this and it needs to end now.

"Just _stop_!" she repeats, little more than a whisper this time. Turns on her heels and runs.

Her mother spends at least an hour in front of her closed door, asking to be let in, but Elyanna _can’t_ right now. She’s grateful that Joffrey doesn’t bother her. More than that though, she wishes her father would let go of his wine glass long enough to check up on her as well.

[He’ll ask to see her a day later. He’ll be sober and his eyes will be shadowed and Elyanna will wish it would make the bruise on Mother’s cheekbone that she wears like a badge of honor — of _spite_ — easier to bear. He’ll apologize and he’ll mean it.

Elyanna will accept it because she doesn’t know how to put_ Why is it that you think I’m the only one you owe an apology to?_ into words.]

So when Elyanna wakes up later that night, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath, shuddering from some half-forgotten terror that won’t stop haunting her, she doesn’t attempt to stop the tears. It would’ve been a fruitless effort.

"How did everything go so wrong?" she asks into the darkness.

They used to be so happy. Weren’t they? Father used to take time out of his busy days filled with time-consuming meetings — and wine and whores — to sit her and Joffrey down and tell them stories. Of battles won and lost — Joffrey’s favorites by far — of the North, with its cold windsthat make Elyanna think of drafty castles in Scotland and myths so different from the ones Sister Barba teaches her.

Mother used to smile more and smile wider. Used to kiss Elyanna’s forehead like a blessing, not an apology. She used to help Elyanna teach Joffrey how to sew when Sister Barba insisted he wouldn’t have to learn those things — because clearly Sister Barba didn’t know what she was talking about. What if Joffrey is on his own one day and needs to fix his clothes? Wouldn’t it be embarrassing if he had to go search for a girl just for that?

Joffrey hasn’t changed as much as their parents, but he’s grown — quieter, for lack of a better word. There’s still that terrible temper of his and that viciousness that yearns for blood and that thoughtfulness when he puts his mind to making Elyanna smile. But he’s less expressive of it all. He smiles more and means it less. And that more than anything worries her.

[The worst part is those moments when it’s almost like it used to be. When Mother and Father banter instead of snipe, when Joffrey laughs honest and pure, when Elyanna feels _light_ and _warm_ and _home_. Those moments still happen. All the time even. It should help, maybe, but it makes the colder, darker times all the harder to endure.]

Picturing Lyanna Stark’s gaunt face is more an effort to calm down and distract herself than anything else, but the despair, the agony of feeling something slip through her fingers that is worth more than all the worldly treasures she could possibly possess isn’t easily pushed aside.

_Maybe this is what it would’ve been like if she’d lived. Maybe it would’ve started out good and bright and everything Father hoped it would be. But it would’ve ended in tears and heartache and children learning to keep their smiles tucked away until their parents are out of sight_.

And quieter, more bitter: _I hope it would’ve been like that_. _I hope it would’ve been beautiful and I hope it would’ve turned to ash in the blink of time_.

"Vicious little thing, aren’t you." Lyanna chuckles. "I can relate."

Elyanna jerks, but doesn’t really do much more than twitch. She’s tired, all cried out and ultimately done with the world. She simply doesn’t have the energy or presence of mind to be surprised right now.

"Whaddaya want?"

"You called." The dead girl shrugs and makes herself comfortable, stretches herself out on Elyanna’s right side. It’s hard to see her expression in the dark, but Elyanna feels the movement when Lyanna turns her head to look into her direction. "Wasn’t like I was occupied elsewhere, so I came."

"I’ve been calling for a while." It’s not an accusation. Elyanna’s too exhausted to make it one.

"Have you?" Lyanna asks and turns her head towards the ceiling.

"Well, I tried."

"You’ve gotten better then. Any particular reason you’re so eager to see me?"

Elyanna snorts. "Would it bother you if I told you no?"

She can feel Lyanna’s body trembling slightly besides her and it takes Elyanna a moment to understand that she’s shaking with suppressed laughter. Once again her sheer giddiness catches Elyanna off-guard.

"I didn’t know whom else to call," she finally settles on. "And I wanted to find out if I could do it again."

"I suppose I should feel flattered that you were willing to reach out to me at all. You’d think you’d grow tired of being haunted by my ghost." Lyanna Stark hums. Her voice is softer now. Fits well into the darkness of the night, filled with secrets not ready to be dragged into the light.

"I am." The answer slips out before Elyanna can think better of it. "But apparently for whatever reason I can reach you and you come. That’s never happened with any other dead people I’ve thought of."

"It hasn’t?" Lyanna sounds genuinely surprised at that statement. Then her voice turns contemplative. "I suppose it might be different. Easier to call those lingering, the ones that haven’t been willing to let go yet…"

Her voice trails off and Elyanna allows the silence to linger. She’s too tired to ask all those questions she’d been meaning to discuss with the girl now. As important as those questions seemed — as important as they still are — they won’t help her put her family back together. In the morning, Elyanna will shrug it off, accept it as another burden to carry that she just can’t shake, but right now? Right now the thought is too much to handle. So she doesn’t.

She refuses to.

They lie there, side by side, for an untold length of time. Lyanna Stark and Elyanna Baratheon. Thegirl-that-shouldn’t-have-died and the girl-that-shouldn’t-live. The girl that tore the Seven Kingdoms’ apart and the one that’s supposed to help build them back up one day.

_What a pair we make_, Elyanna thinks with a snort. A snort that somehow turns into a giggle. Which then develops into a muffled laughing fit.

Half of Lyanna’s face is covered by the shadows, but Elyanna has no problem identifying the what-the-fuck expression on her face in that moment. Not that she can explain her sudden burst of hilarity, but she tries nonetheless.

"Here we are," she gets out in between a half-swallowed giggle or two. Shakes her head. "Here we both are, in a situation most can’t imagine and might even lead to a crisis of faith or two, and honestly? All I can think is that I feel like I’m the butt of a cosmic joke."

"That… does sum this up rather nicely," Lyanna admits after a moment.

It doesn’t help, exactly, this odd kinship with a girl she’ll never truly know, but it doesn’t make things worse either. At this point, that’s really all Elyanna’s hoping for.

It’s quiet even longer after that, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Elyanna thinks she might even be able to drift of like this— which would have the added benefit of not looking like a train ran her over in the morning. A morning that is already far closer than she’d like to acknowledge. Alas, sleep refuses to come. And as they tend to be, Elyanna’s thoughts always become louder and harder to ignore after dark.

"Hey." She turns her head towards Lyanna, who at some point has pushed herself into an upright position and is now sitting with her legs crossed near Elyanna’s hip, braiding her hair. "What did you mean when you said it might be easier with those who lingered?"

The repetitive motions of Lyanna’s fingers on her half-finished braid pause.

"Only that I assume that like it is easier to dig up a body that isn’t buried too deep under the soil, so might a spirit be raised with less effort if it hasn’t found itself at rest yet."

That— doesn’t sound too out of there. And also morbid. Very, very morbid. But was she expecting? She’s talking with a dead person.

"Huh. What’s keeping you from finding rest then, if you don’t mind me asking?"

From the way Lyanna’s body tenses though, it’s clear that she minds very much. For the first time tonight, Elyanna wishes she could see her face clearly. Now she’s genuinely curious.

"Well? What is it?"

"My son," Lyanna admits after a very long pause during which Elyanna contemplates asking a third time.

"Your _what_?"

Lyanna sags. Visibly, but it’s more than just that. It’s like— all of her strings have suddenly been cut. As though a wave of desolate hopelessness has been building all this time without either of them noticing and now, suddenly and without warning, it crashes. Elyanna feels it — or what she assumes is the backlash of it — not just physically but mentally. It slams into her like a physical force, something too brittle, too desperate to be _grief_, too hateful to be _loss_.

"You had a _son_?" Elyanna asks again. Can’t not, really, because in that moment the thought is just too unbelievable.

"Have."

If anything, that single word pulls out what’s left of an increasingly tattered tapestry from under Elyanna’s feet. She doesn’t even know why it throws her off the way it does. Except, of course, that she’s been listening to bedtime stories about this girl since before she can remember, and though not all of them were flattering in the least, none of them ever mentioned a _son_.

"I—" And what is Elyanna supposed to say to that? It’s not her business, not really. This girl, who, in another life, could’ve been her mother, never married her father and she doesn’t owe Elyanna a damn thing. She’s dead besides, so there’s no point in debating it.

Elyanna _wants_ to. She wants to ask _who_. She wants to ask _when_. She wants to ask _how_. She wants to ask _where is he now_. She wants to ask all these questions everyone assumes will forever go unanswered because the only ones who could possibly answer them are dead. Gods help her, she does.

[Elyanna always has been more invested in the tale and legend of Lyanna Stark than her mother would’ve liked her to be.]

"Is he happy?" she asks instead.

Because this — this moment right now, where the faint taint of a half-mad desperation not her own still cloys Elyanna’s senses, where Lyanna looks at once taller and more breakable and like the wrong world will shatter her into pieces even Elyanna’s odd, sort-of-magic won’t be able to fix — this isn’t the moment to satisfy her curiosity. This is some left-over of the _real_ Lyanna Stark, not the shade that Elyanna’s been seeing until now.

And maybe Lyanna understands that, hears everything Elyanna doesn’t say in that single question, or maybe she’s simply too grateful for an easy way out to question it. But all she does is shrug and tilt her head sideways, half-done braid falling over her shoulder, eyes glinting in the darkness.

"Are you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took a bit longer! This week has been stressful, but I wanted to get this out today. Have to catch up on sleep now, so please excuse any mistakes (I'll reread this tomorrow and check for mistakes) and also thank you so much for your lovely comments. I appreciate every one of them and I hope you forgive that I'll answer them tomorrow sometime during the day because I really need to go to bed now. But you'll get an answer, promise!
> 
> Meanwhile I'd love to hear what you think about this chapter! It turned out a bit more messy than intended, but I guess that's Elyanna's state of mind right now. And there's the obligatory family feels, though that leans more towards family angst atm. Plus Lyanna because who ever said the dead can keep secrets any better than the living?


	15. part xv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can talk to dead people."

_293 AC_

To Elyanna’s utter lack of surprise, the morning following her second encounter with Lyanna Stark’s ghost is exactly as terrible as the first one was. She doesn’t _quite_ pass out, but that’s about the only good thing that can be said about it. Cancelling archery practice is the least of her worries — though it earns her a long stare from Joffrey she can’t interpret. He won’t leave her to her own devices for much longer.

On the bright side, everyone seems to assume that she’s spent the last night crying herself to sleep over her parents. Which in turn means no one wants to confront her about her chalk-white face and red-rimmed eyes. An unexpected benefit. Not one she’ll be able to milk for long, but any reprieve is appreciated.

"Are you sick?" Unfortunately, Myrcella is too young to have developed these types of sensibilities. And too curious for her own good besides.

Fortunately both of their parents have excused themselves for this meal, still licking their wounds no doubt, and Joffrey is still stuck at the practice yard. Sister Barba watches them with sharp eyes, but she won’t say anything. She never does when she doesn’t think it her place to offer an opinion. That only ever seems to be the case when it comes to Elyanna’s manners, not her state of health.

"No, darling." Elyanna smiles and hopes it doesn’t look as pained as it feels. "I’m just tired."

Myrcella frowns, pushes her lower lip forward in an adorable pout. "You look sick," she points out, and Elyanna doesn’t have the heart or conviction to disagree.

Thank the Gods for the short attention span of three-year-olds.

The crushing exhaustion aside, Elyanna doesn’t think she’s doing too bad. She’s spent far more time with Lyanna this time and hasn’t even fainted once. That’s got to count for something. Maybe if she does it more often, she’ll be able to build up a better tolerance. Sort of like learning the bow. You’ve got to build up the muscles and improve through continuous exercise and training.

But that’s a thought for another day, at least a few weeks from now. When her body’s had a chance to recover from the backlash of whatever it is she does to pull Lyanna to her.

Distracted as she is, Sister Barba has to remind Elyanna to finish her meal four times. The broth tastes like ash on her tongue and her hands won’t stop shaking, but Elyanna forces herself to continue. She can’t afford to miss out on meals, now even less than before. Especially with the searching glances her Septa keeps stealing at her. Like she’s already planning the eulogy.

Elyanna grits her teeth and keeps eating.

*

"Mother says you’re sick," Joffrey says a couple of days later while they collect the arrows they’ve used.

[And by 'they' Elyanna means 'Joffrey'. Clearly picking up a few pieces of wood would overwhelm her and they can’t possibly have that.]

It’s not a question, not really. Joffrey knows better than to ask her questions like that. Knows better than to assume she’d answer honestly, most likely.

Elyanna sighs. Unlike Myrcella, Joffrey won’t be distracted by a game of hide and seek or an interesting tale. Not anymore.

"So she does."

It’s not an agreement, but it’s as close as Elyanna will get.

For a long moment, Joffrey doesn’t say anything. Just bends down to pick up the last few arrows — he’s had more misses than hits today, but that’s what happens when you pay more attention to your company than your target — before he rises again and meets her eyes. Steady and calm — so unlike the chaotic temperament Eylanna is used to — and not at all angry.

It’s in that moment that Elyanna for the first time sees the man — the _King_ — her brother could become one day. A man she’d be proud to call her brother. And she doubts she’ll be the only one.

Whatever question Elyanna expected, it’s not the "Do you trust me?" that Joffrey asks of her. Not furious. Not even demanding. He just asks. Like he genuinely wants to hear the answer. Like he isn’t sure what the answer will be. 

That last part shouldn’t hurt, but, _oh_, it does. All the more so because much as Elyanna wants to tell him _yes_, wants to reassure Joffrey — right now, she isn’t sure she can. If she says yes, she’ll have to tell him why she looks more dead than alive these days. And what is she supposed to tell him? That she’s been chatting it up with the dead?

That the girl that might well have ruined what little chance for happiness their parents had has been spending the nights in her chambers, making jokes and telling tales? That there’s more to the story of Lyanna Stark than either Father or Mother ever told them, and Elyanna is too scared of knowing the answers to inquire further?

That she might be killing herself for a chance to talk with a stranger that’s been dead for over a decade?

Really, Elyanna isn’t even sure which part of it Joffrey would take the worst.

"I’ll get better," is the answer she settles on and even though she means it, Elyanna knows it’s not the one Joffrey wants to hear.

She does. It takes her hands two weeks to stop trembling, but she does.

[She doesn’t. The first time she manages to beat her previous record on accuracy, Joffrey sneaks a blueberry tart from the kitchen and although it’s still warm and smells delicious, Elyanna feels like it crumbles to dust on her tongue and she _doesn’t_.]

*

She tries to reach out to Maester Colmar next. If nothing else the old maester could make dealing with Pycelle so much simpler because at least Elyanna would know what to watch out for. It’s not like her questionable health is a secret she can _hide_. Not at this stage.

[The esteemed Grand Maester has declared her unfit to ride. Elyanna won’t miss it — there’s something about horses that reminds her of flying skeletons, and riding just doesn’t give her the same rush — but it’s the principle of the thing. It’s only a matter of time until Ser Jaime stops pretending he doesn’t know about her archery lessons with Joff and forbids those too.]

It’s even less of a success than her previous efforts to contact Lyanna again had been. Elyanna isn’t sure what she’s missing. She tries to focus, to visualize and when that fails she tries emotions. That one’s harder though.

Maester Colmar doesn’t hold the same emotional ties that Lyanna does. Elyanna knew him and cared for him, sure, but there’s nothing deep, complex and ambivalent about it.

His memory can’t drive her to tears or shouting, and Elyanna doesn’t know how to change that. She can make herself angry or sad or desolate just fine. It’s connecting those emotion to the calm, kind Maester of her childhood that she fails at.

"Maybe he’s made his peace with himself and the world," Lyanna tells her when Elyanna accidentally summons her in another botched attempt to reach Maester Colmar. "Maybe he’s got nothing else to tell you."

"That’s stupid," Elyanna points out because why do adults — who should be old enough to know better — keep on letting her down?

"People are stupid all the time." Lyanna shrug. "Why would you think death cures them of that? Besides you’re stupid too. Why are you killing yourself over this?"

"Because I have to _know_," Elyanna snaps, tired, frustrated and unwilling to have yet another person who clearly doesn’t _get it_ talk down to her.

"Do you?" Lyanna doesn’t sound convinced. "You could confront Pycelle, if you’re that concerned about it. Or clue in your mother. She’s vicious enough to see the man dead if she thinks him a credible threat to you. Seven hells, your precious Joffrey would happily murder the man without a reason if you gave him leave to do so."

She’s got a point, even if Elyanna refuses to admit it out loud. But how can she explain that she’s been dreaming about magic — _real_ magic — all her life? How can she put in words what if feels like to finally, finally taste something almost like it? So close it might as well be the real thing?

"I have to do this."

Lyanna scoffs. "You don’t have to lie. I’m dead, remember? I don’t care."

Elyanna doesn't respond. She keeps trying to reach Maester Colmar, but whether Lyanna is right in her suspicions or not, he remains beyond her reach.

*

Elyanna hadn’t intended to seek out Eon again this soon. Their not-quite-friendship isn’t reliant on regular interactions — it’s not like their lives are so exciting that they have to keep each other up-to-date in real time. The few, meaningful conversations they’ve shared always more than made up for the lack of frequent contact.

Alas, for all that Elyanna has made tentative friends with some people in the Red Keep — Mern and Ratface come to mind — they either treat her as a lady, their princess, and never really stop or they only know her as Ella, the dirty servant girl. Neither is helpful in this situation because what Elyanna really needs is advice. Advice from the _living_, that is.

Of course she could try to ask Mother or Ser Jaime or even Sister Barba. But they are too clever for their own good and she’d have to come up with such a round-about way of asking that she might as well not bother at all.

Thus she’s down to people who know who she is, aren’t unnecessarily deferential and whom she trusts to give her decent advice if she asks for it.

It’s a pretty short list.

[She should probably work on that.]

Which is the reason Elyanna is once again dressed in her tattered Ella garb, ash and dirt smeared across her face, feet and arms, her ever-noticeable scar carefully hidden under a thin layer of mud. She’s missing her prized archery practice for this, but that’s alright — Joffrey hasn’t shown up for any in days.

It’s hard to say if he’s sulking, hurt or just too busy, what with Elyanna avoiding him whenever possible. Which probably only makes things worse. But. Everything is such a huge mess right now and Elyanna just— needs a moment. To come to terms with everything. To figure out what she should do and, more importantly, what she _will_ do.

She can’t face Joffrey until she’s made that choice, until she’s sure of it. Otherwise it wouldn’t be fair to him.

So here she is, crawling through one of the hidden passages that probably haven’t used since long before the Mad King’s reign. This one Elyanna’s discovered on accident, on one of her more fruitful hide and seek trips with her brother. It leads right down to a small bay outside the keep’s walls that the maids use to do laundry. Exchanging a couple of nods, handing a few sheets around and waving back at a couple of gossiping women, Elyanna passes through the crowd with ease.

The sun beating down on her makes her absently wish for winter to come already — though from what Sister Barba says, winter is no laughing matter considering it can apparently last for years just like this seemingly eternal summer does. Elyanna already doesn’t feel too well, which makes the heat harder to endure. Leaves her feeling shaky and unsteady. An added weakness Elyanna doesn’t relish in. Especially not while moving unsupervised through King’s Landing.

This city may be her hometown, but that doesn’t make the place any less dangerous. _Bad attracts worse_, as her Septa likes to preach.

The heat makes the stench worse too, but that one Elyanna doesn’t mind too much. She’s never known anything else. Which is probably a blessing or else she’d walk around with a perpetual sneer stuck on her face.

Eon is at his usual corner, right by the market. One day Elyanna will have to ask him why he picked this particular place and how he manages to keep that spot for himself day after day. Today she just drops down next to him.

Partly to be dramatic. Partly because if she doesn’t sit down _now_, she’s going to fall over. And wouldn’t that just be terribly undignified?

"You’re ill," are the first words Eon speaks to her.

Of course they are. Why would escaping the Red Keep mean she’d be free of getting badgered over her health? These people need a hobby. Desperately.

"Am I?" Elyanna asks drily. "I hadn’t noticed."

Eon frowns, which isn’t that unusual in her presence. But then he reaches out and his hand closes around her wrist — she feels his fingers, too warm against her clammy skin, searching for her pulse — and that is very unusual.

Eon doesn’t _touch_ her. Or anyone else for that matter. Even though the people passing them by give him the odd disgusted glare or abstractly fascinated stare, they move around him like they’re afraid his blindness is contagious. Eon exists in a bubble of his own. Sometimes Elyanna envies him for that.

[Sometimes she wonders at the lonely life it must be.]

"That doesn’t surprise me," Eon says absently. His hand is still wrapped around her wrist. She can feel calluses on his palm and fingertips. "You look, but you don’t really _see_."

Elyanna rolls her eyes. Comments like that would be a lot more helpful if Eon paired them with concrete suggestions and pointers.

"I can see just fine."

Eon shakes his head. "You pay attention. That’s not the same thing."

With a sign, Elyanna frees her hand from his grasp and lets it limply drop by her side. Trace the dusty, uneven ground under her feet. Despite the sun-warmed stone wall she’s leaning against, Elyanna feels cold. The pressure behind her temples is flaring up again too. Not helped by the noise of the lively street surrounding them.

"I didn’t come here to have this discussion again." She doesn’t mean to snap, but the words come out easier that way. Frustration isn’t something she’s lacking at the moment.

"Not every possibility can be accounted for," Eon says and he sounds so terribly amused despite himself by that prospect. Like he’s making a joke at his own expense that he knows she hasn’t been clued into — and that’s half the fun.

"Yes, thank you for stating the obvious." Elyanna brushes the suspected subtext off. That’s not what she’s here for. And as entertaining as Eon’s cryptic nature can be, she’s had her quota of unsolved mysteries for the year. "But if you don’t mind, I have a problem and I need an outside perspective on what I’m supposed to do."

"Only one problem?" Eon snorts. "You’ve been busy since the last time I saw you then, m’lady."

"Oh_ fuck you_."

He’s got a point, but there’s no reason to rub it in her face. Still, Elyanna shifts closer towards him, until she can feel the line of Eon’s body against her side. She hasn’t come this far to chicken out now.

"It’s— my brother. He’s started asking questions lately. Questions I don’t know how to answer, if I even _should_."

"Why not?"

Elyanna opens her mouth. Pauses. "I’m afraid what the answers would do to him," she finally admits. "It would hurt him, I think. I’m sure it would."

Eon is quiet for a moment and though Elyanna doesn’t fool herself into thinking he cares much about her and Joff one way or another, she appreciates that he takes her serious. "Your lack of answers is hurting him, is it not?" he asks a moment later in that smug way of his that makes it clear he already knows the answer before he’s finished posing the question. "What are you really afraid of?"

It’s bloody annoying.

Elyanna releases a breath of air like it’s been punched out of her. "That he’ll do something stupid. That he’s going to be angry, that he won’t listen, that he’s disappointed. Take your pick." _That he won’t believe me_. _That he will_. Elyanna doesn’t know what would be worse.

[_That he’ll tell me to stop_.]

"Hmm." Eon leans his head back against the wall. Elyanna wonders if he can smell the cold sweat on her, hear the rattling in every caught breath. If so he doesn’t appear bothered by it, which is more than she can say for Mother.

"Do you trust him?"

"Of course."

There’s no hesitation, no doubt. Elyanna has spent over a year seeing a monster in every action her brother took. She’s looked into the young face of a blond child and seen Tom Riddle stare back at her. She’s agonized and wondered and feared. And in the end she’d chosen.

It’s not a choice she can take back now. It’s not a choice she wants to take back.

Joffrey _is_ her brother. He is _not_ Tom Riddle. And what kind of King he’ll become will be for future historians to decide.

Eon hums again, and gently strokes the pale skin over the artery on her wrist.

"Then act like it."

*

It’s Eon’s parting words — "_You should go, m’lady_." — that remind Elyanna of another issue she’s been meaning to handle. Or at least to force herself to stop pretending it doesn’t exist.

[Look how well that approach turned out for Fudge and his toadies. Turns out even when you don’t believe in returned Dark Lords, they can still come out of the dark and murder you.]

This particular concern has been on the back of her mind since Elyanna’s twelfth name day, when her mother took her aside to have a truly horrific version of _The Talk_ with her. Personal trauma and second-hand embarrassment aside, she’s growing older. Too old. Old enough to be considered off-age as soon as she starts bleeding for the first time. That day might still be a few years off, but from what Mother told her Elyanna is of the right age now for it to happen at any time.

Which means it’s high time for Elyanna to concern herself with one of the most terrifying prospects of her life: her future. Considering the rather limited career options offered in the Seven Kingdoms’, that pretty much amounts to discussing her marriage prospects.

[The thought of marriage makes her shudder and cackle in turns, depending on her mood and in what context she considers the potential outcomes. Most days she tries not to consider them at all though.]

"I’m ten and two, Mother." Elyanna sighs and finally gives up on trying to find a delicate way to bring the subject up. "I’m hardly a child and this is a conversation I would very much appreciate to be involved in. Or at least kept informed. Moreover, it’s one we need to have. It’s already unusual for a princess of my age to not be betrothed. Once I’m flowered, not even my rank will keep people from talking."

Not that it does now, but that’s nothing Mother — or Father, for that matter — need to be made aware of. Elyanna really doesn’t want the first execution she’ll witness be done in her name to protect her reputation.

Her mother smiles, the one that is embittered by a smidge of sadness. "You’ll always be a child to me."

"To you maybe, but in the eyes of the realm I’m not," Elyanna counters. She’s not going to be distracted by one of Mother’s sweet spiels, not this time. It’s bad enough that she has to have this conversation. That she’s also the one who has to bring it up is just rubbing salt into an already inflamed wound.

But if she’s the only one willing to be an adult regarding this issue, then Elyanna is damn well going to be one — and pull her parents kicking and screaming with her if she has too. Too much of her life will be defined by this one, stupid decision to leave it hanging over her head unattended.

Harry’s lived under the sword of Damocles once, Elyanna has no wish to repeat the experience.

"Mother, you know I’ll have to get married one day." She forces herself to hold her mother’s gaze. "And considering who I am, there’ll be a lot riding on that choice. I realize that I won’t marry for love, but if my marriage has to be political, I’d at least like to know what I’m in for. To prepare myself, if nothing else."

Her mother delicately places her cup of tea down on the table. "Elyanna. Sweet child, you are—" she hesitates, which is so unlike her mother, it has Elyanna blinking in surprise. "—in no condition to marry."

Elyanna winces despite herself. _Of course_. Of course they’d use her health as an excuse. A justification. She should’ve expected this. It’s a cheap shot, but all the more useful for it.

"I understand." The words taste like ash. Mother leans forward to cover her hand with one of her own, but Elyanna pulls back. Swallows the confusing well of emotions down and presses on.

"But I’m not talking about marriage. I’m talking about considering potential betrothals. Nothing that needs to be finalized until I flower. My health can be discussed when we’re looking at a serious offer."

There’s no missing the hurt flashing over her face when Mother pulls her hand back, folds them in her lap instead. "Where is this coming from, Sweetling? You’ve never shown any interest in marrying before today."

_Lyanna Stark’s rant about having to leave Winterfell made me realize that the only way I’ll ever get out of this city is by getting betrothed to some Lord’s son. And it took my friend Eon asking me how I like my kingdom to realize how small my world really is. To realize that I want to see it, all of it, more than I’ve ever wanted to play court and keep Joff from poisoning stupid advisors._

The words are on the tip of Elyanna’s tongue, but she doesn’t voice them. She can’t hurt her mother like this, not when she’s done nothing to deserve it. Not when she’s doing her best to protect Elyanna in her own way.

[Not when Elyanna lies awake at night sometimes, trying to picture her mother’s life after she and Myrcella and Gwyneth are grown and married, spread all over the kingdom to strengthen and preserve alliances. It’s not just her own future that scares her.]

"I know I’ll have to eventually," Elyanna says instead. "That’s why Sister Barba keeps going over all the houses with me, all the lords and their heirs. Isn’t it? That’s what Lord Arryn and Father argue about the most. Mother, I know you’re trying to protect me, but I can’t stay here with you forever. And I— I’d rather we take care of the matter now, with more than enough time to spare to make an informed decision than wait until it’s urgent and I have to settle for someone desperate enough or greedy enough to accept any deal Father offers."

That’s… not much better because it’s a truth of its own. But it’s not an_ I want to leave one day_ that would break her mother’s heart, so there’s that.

Her mother’s back straightens. "You are a daughter of Houses Baratheon and Lannister, Elyanna," she says forcefully, the words sharp enough to cut through skin and bone. "A princess of the realm. You will _never_ be forced into a marriage beneath your station."

Elyanna swallows, unprepared for the intensity of her mother’s response. But it’s not that easy. That’s not the world they live in and a Queen should know that better than anyone.

"You can’t promise that."

"Yet I do." Mother takes her hands, the strong grip betraying her true strength. There’s a fire burning in her eyes that Elyanna has only ever associated with Joffrey at his worst. "I will die before I allow you to be trapped in a marriage you do not wish for."

Elyanna exhales shakily. "Mother—"

The ferociousness of her mother’s expression doesn’t lessen. "I swear it. By the Old Gods and the New, I swear it."

*

She breathes in.

_What are you?_

_A muggle._

[_Am I?_]

Out.

_What do you want to be?_

_A witch._

[_Do I?_]

Let’s go.

_Leave_.

[_Whom?_]

Pulls another arrow from her quiver.

_What are you?_

*

"I don’t want to see you right now."

Elyanna winces. That might be one of the coldest things her brother has ever said to her — in that infamous icy tone of his too. The one he’s copied from their mother at her most incensed.

"That’s fair." She keeps her voice soft, but even from her place near the window she can see the way tension ripples across Joffrey’s back. He makes no move to turn around. She can’t blame him for that.

"I just ask that you listen."

Joffrey doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t throw her out, which Elyanna takes as tacit permission to continue.

"The truth is, I’m not sick." That part, so similar to all the other denials she’s uttered lately, is easy to get out. "Or at least not in the way Mother thinks I am. It’s— more complicated than that. I can do certain— things. That require— a price. They cost energy, I suppose, and paying that cost weakens my body."

From the way Joffrey’s hands clench into fists at his side, Elyanna knows her brother’s listening. And doesn’t like what he’s hearing. [Who would?] He hasn’t turned yet, but he also hasn’t interrupted her. That’s. Something.

She takes a forceful breath.

_You either trust him or you don’t_. Eon was right. There’s no such thing as declaring someone can be trusted. Trust isn’t a good to be assigned, it’s an action that has to be lived and repeated constantly to properly grow. It’s past time she holds herself to the vow she made on her brother’s bedside years ago.

_Quick and painful. Like ripping off a bandaid._

"I can talk to dead people."

*

Twilight colors King’s Landing in shadows by the time he rises from his place on the ground. Shuffles along the no longer over-crowded streets, his back hunched but eyes attentive and muscles loose. Nothing in his outer appearance betrays haste or nerves and his gait, slow and uneven, is less noticeable than invisibility ever could be.

There's value in being seen but not noticed, watched but not remembered. A value he's built his entire life upon — or what was left of it, by the time he entered a door that doesn't allow for returns and changing minds.

The face that meets him around the corner is female, unscarred and unremarkable.

"You weren’t expected," it tells him.

He doesn't point out that he's well-aware of that. Nor does he mention that he hasn't given any outward signs of his intention to visit and yet clearly his coming has been anticipated.

Truth be told, he's expected nothing less. It would do them a disservice to assume otherwise.

"Not everything can be expected."

The face shows no reaction or interest in the statement. Doesn't voice the _but you should_ that's been haunting him for many moons now. It simply looks at him, waiting. He doesn't know what it reads in his expression, if there is anything to read. He wishes the thought would cease to make him nervous. It's not like he has anything to hide.

[One day, he'll even believe that.]

"Why have you come?"

He doesn't tense at the question, but there's an almost sardonic glint in the face's eyes, and he thinks they probably know anyways. They always do.

"To give a name," he answers all the same.

"A name you've been given?"

_Would if it was that simple._

"I’ve come to give a name," he repeats. Not an answer to the question that has been asked, yet an answer all the same.

"Very well."

Despite the careless acceptance, the words are coated in judgement. A reminder of the fine line he’s walking on. A wasted one, for it doesn’t make him pause for even a moment.

The thing is, _Eon_ would've hesitated. Would’ve second-guessed himself. Wondered if an offer that, once made, cannot be undone is really the right course of action. Eon would’ve dragged this decision out for another couple of moons at least, and then a few more after that. But Eon is nothing but a useful face, his thoughts and feelings of no consequence, and No One [<strike>has already waited much longer than he ought to</strike>] doesn’t entertain hesitation or doubt.

"Elyanna Baratheon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm ridiculously behind on comment responses. PLEASE DON'T LET THAT DISCOURAGE YOU! I swear I read them and I /will/ respond sometime tonight or tomorrow. I've just not gotten the free time to do it yet.  
But at least this chapter got a surprise treat for you Eon-fans: We finally got to see in his head!! (Okay, yes, I know I'm cruel). Also some El&Joff issues and if you read between the lines, I think it becomes very clear why Elyanna isn't betrothed yet. Yes, Cersei will indeed do whatever it takes to keep her kid with her for as long as possible. And gods help any man that would make her unhappy. Please let me know what you think of this chapter!! (And I promise, I'll get caught up on the comments before I post the next chapter). Have a great weekend!!


	16. part xvi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Whose names would the world remember if you were to write history?_

_293 AC - 294 AC_

Getting Joffrey to believe in magic isn’t the problem. Elyanna’s word is more than enough. Apparently the little bugger has been paying attention to her rants on magical creatures like dragons and direwolves and magical words and legends all these years than she’d thought because he doesn’t so much as blink at the revelation that it still exists. That magic is still a force to be reckoned with — or at least account for — in their world.

"_Obviously_," had been his exact words, completely with the condescending, one-hundred-per-cent-done-with-this level of exasperation only a pre-teen can achieve, "Where exactly should magic have gone?! Things don’t just disappear because people don’t like them."

[There’s a damn _reason_ she loves her brother and it’s not just because Elyanna is hopelessly biased.]

In retrospect, Elyanna realizes that she expected Joffrey to be angry. More than that. She was certain he would be. And maybe he is, but not in the way she’s mentally prepared herself for. When he first turns around to face her — somewhere in between recounting her first conversation with Lyanna Stark and the realization that she has to put both her mind and emotions into a 'call' — his gaze locks on her with the focus of a hunter narrowing in on their chosen prey.

"Was that when the grey rat thought you’d caught a fever because you looked half-dead for days?"

There’s an unspoken warning in his question. Elyanna hears it loud and clear, but she’s not entirely sure what it refers to. Nevertheless, Joffrey’s asked her not to lie to him ever again, so she tells him the truth.

"Yes."

A muscle on Joffrey’s lower jaw twitches. "Has that happened every time you’ve summoned a ghost?" he asks low and intent.

"More or less, yeah." Elyanna grins weakly. "I think it’s an exchange of energy of sorts. Like I’m using invisible muscles to pull Lyanna to me, but I still use them and the strength that goes into it has to be payed somehow, you know?"

The furrow between Joffrey’s eyebrows deepens. "So— You’re hurting yourself on purpose." It’s a statement, not a question.

And even though it’s technically true, Elyanna has to bite down on her tongue to suppress the instinctive denial.

"Listen, Joff, I know it doesn’t sound too good when you look at it like that, but it’s not like it’s truly dangerous. I’m just tired for a few days, but that’s not too big a price to pay for a chance to do actual magic, don’t you think?"

"Are you mad?!" Joffrey hisses — actually hisses, like a cat who’s tail Elyanna’s accidentally stepped on — and takes two quick steps towards her. Then he pauses, the outrage freezing on his face before it drains away, covered by a paper-thin mask of calm that doesn’t quite hide the raging storm in his eyes.

"It’s too dangerous, El. You need to stop."

The conversation only goes downhill from there.

*

Despite their constant presence in the Red Keep, Elyanna has very little contact with the members of the Small Council. Mostly, that’s thanks to the fact that Elyanna doesn’t really have contact with anyone outside her immediate family and household members, but it’s also to a certain degree a deliberate choice. There’s only so many times your mother can warn you about strangers before you become wary enough to avoid them.

_Those men may not wear a crown, but they’re five of the most powerful people in the entire Seven Kingdoms’_, Mother likes to say. _They didn’t make it this far because they’re good or honorable people_. _They made it this far because they wanted power_ _and were smart enough to understand that sitting on the Iron Throne isn’t the only way to get it. Always remember that_.

Father’s hand, Lord Arryn, is the one Elyanna interacts with the most, by sheer virtue of the time the man spends in her father’s presence. He also seeks out her mother regularly, but she does an admirable job of separating her time as Queen from her time as Mother.

Elyanna loves her. Adores her with all her heart. And she knows her mother feels the same way with a startling certainty. But sometimes, when she crosses Lord Arryn’s path on her way to Mother, sees the deep lines on his face and the grim tilt of his lips, she wonders at what cost that love for her and her siblings comes. For her mother. Her parents. The realm.

[_You can love many, but you can only be loyal to one_, Luna whispers and slides her warm hand into his. It sounds like a warning, but Harry isn’t sure even she herself knows who should heed it.]

Lord Renly is also a fairly regular guest among the royal family. Elyanna likes him — he is kind, funny and knows the most interesting tales about all sorts of people in the keep — but she doesn’t really know him. Usually when he joins them for a meal, Father sooner or later begins to make fun of him until Lord Renly becomes quiet and solemn and excuses himself. It has taken Elyanna five years to figure out that the man is her uncle, her father’s youngest _brother_ — terribly embarrassing, that, but in her defense, it’s not like anyone had thought to tell her. Sure, she can recite the Baratheon family tree in her sleep, but that’s not the same as looking at real people and recognizing them as family. Not that Mother has ever treated Lord Renly as anything more than an unwelcome intruder of high status — the kind you want to get rid off but don’t want to offend outright.

When they run into each other in the hallways or one of the many gardens Lord Renly enjoys, he always looks happy to see her though. Which is more than Elyanna can say for her father’s second brother Lord Stannis. Granted, she’s never seen Lord Stannis look _happy_. And he’s not around much, what with living at Dragonstone, so it’s not like Elyanna has had the chance to really get to know him.

[Father had suggested they visit Dragonstone once, when Elyanna was six and wouldn’t talk about anything but dragons for moons, but Mother had been outraged. She’d been worried about her health, Elyanna suspects now, although she hasn’t asked for confirmation. It wouldn’t help to know how many exciting trips she’s cost her siblings.]

Lord Varys, Father’s Master of Whispers, is an odd fellow. Elyanna has maybe exchanged a handful of conversations with the man and isn’t eager to repeat the experience. Lord Varys isn’t sleazy like Pycelle or insecure like Lord Renly or utterly done with her father’s shit like Lord Arryn. No. Lord Varys is simply present, with his little birds and his constantly growing collection of valuable information, advising when asked — and sometimes even when not — but always watching from the shadows.

Elyanna doesn’t like him.

[Unlike the others, Lord Varys served the Mad King before her father, and for all that it’s not the man’s fault that King Aerys went batshit crazy, he was still loyal to a man who saw traitors everywhere and _burned them all alive_. Elyanna supposes that this type of loyalty towards a ruler is expected, taken for granted even, but she can’t help thinking, _a king is nothing without the men who follow him and obey his orders_. _And those men, the ones who support and enable him, aren’t they just as much to blame for the crimes committed in his name?_

No, whomever Lord Varys serves, whatever it is he wants, Elyanna seriously doubts it’s her father. She doesn’t trust Varys — can’t read him well enough to know what his motivation is, what he really wants — and she hates it.]

Then there’s Lord Baelish. _Strongly mixed feelings_ would probably be the most accurate description for what Elyanna thinks of the man. On the one hand, Lord Baelish — unlike all the other simpering lords and ladies Elyanna watches fall over themselves at court — has built himself a life from nothing. He’s earned himself a lordship and a highly conveyed position through his own merits rather than his forefather’s accomplishments.

That alone deserves some respect. It also deserves a healthy dose of suspicious wariness, as far as her mother is concerned. _A man who has the abilities, resources and ruthlessness to pull such a thing off is one to be feared at all times_. And as much as Elyanna thinks her mother paranoid when it comes to people not her children, she can’t much argue with that point. Not when it’s so obviously true.

Which is why racing down the Red Keep in search for Lord Baelish is a fairly new experience. But unusual circumstances demand an unusual approach. And it doesn’t get much more unusual than involving the dead, as far as Elyanna is aware.

After several weeks of no success with her attempts to summon Maester Colmar, Elyanna has decided to switch targets. To confirm Lyanna’s suspicions, she’s decided on someone unlikely to be at peace this time. Someone whose life got cut short, who missed out on too much, who deserved more than they got. Luckily, Elyanna lives in the Red Keep. A virtual graveyard of undeserved deaths dealt out by the Mad King little more than a decade ago. There’s no shortage of people to choose from that fit her criteria.

[She could even try to reach the Mad King himself. But. There are some ghosts that really shouldn’t be resurrected. And Elyanna doubts a madman will hold the answers she seeks. Besides she’s kind of fond of the Starks. The idea of them at least.]

"Lord Baelish!" Elyanna exclaims, having finally tracked down the man to a small yard not far from his office. He’s alone, thankfully, and pauses mid-step at the sound of his name.

"Princess Elyanna," Lord Baelish greets her with a kind smile in spite of his clear surprise at seeing her. The lords at the Red Keep always have smiles for her. A perk of having a king for a father. "What do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

Elyanna beams up at him, happy to overlook any potential sarcastic undercurrents. She’s just a little girl, a child in these people’s eyes, and she’ll milk that cow for as long as she can possibly get away with. Considering Joffrey’s already over a head taller than her, that might be for quite some time yet. Hey, if there’s any advantage to her physical weakness, she’s not above using it to her advantage.

"Are you terribly busy, Lord Baelish?" she asks, hands folded neatly in front of her. "Or could I borrow a moment of your time?"

"Of course, Princess," Lord Baelish responds immediately. "I am happy to be at your disposal."

He uses the same indulgent tone that Elyanna has grown used to expect from Ser Jaime, when she’s doing something silly that he should probably put a stop to, but amuses him and so he doesn’t bother.

The association is an uncomfortable one, but Elyanna forces herself to keep up the sweet princess smile mother makes her practice every day. It feels good to finally put all that effort to good use.

"You’re too kind, my lord!" she says brightly. Claps her hands for added effect as she bounces up to his side. Praise never hurts anyone, after all, and Lord Baelish’s expression softens a little.

Good. She’s going to need that extra bonus.

"How can I be of assistance, Princess?"

"I’ve learned a lot about the realm’s Lord Paramounts in my lessons in the last few days," Elyanna starts.

That’s true enough. Although she’s been learning the names of the noble families of Westeros, their alliances and marriages, for years, it’s only been recently that Sister Barba has begun to teach her the political implications of the various titles and the responsibilities and structures that are tied to them. It certainly beats her lessons on the proper conduct of a household, although Elyanna doesn’t mind the numbers. It’s mostly primary school level mathematics with a lot of logistics and background knowledge anyways.

"I was wondering if you could tell me a bit about House Stark?"

Lord Baelish stares at her for a long moment — clearly, he hasn’t anticipated this particular question and why would he — before he shakes his head and laughs out loud.

"I’m afraid I truly am the wrong person to ask, my princess. I have never been particularly close to House Stark. Your father, his Grace King Robert, would make for a much more reliable source I suspect. His close friendship with Lord Eddard Stark is well-known through the realm."

"Yes, yes." Elyanna waves him off impatiently. "I’ve heard more of Lord Stark than I ever needed to in a single lifetime."

At that Lord Baelish lips twitch like they can’t help themselves.

"That’s not why I’m here," Elyanna continues. "I was wondering if you could tell me more about _Lady _Stark. You were close friends who grew up together, right? Sister Barba said so. And Father always goes on and on about Lord Stark, but he never mentions anyone else. I’m curious." She bounces back on her heels and gives Lord Baelish her most hopeful, wide-eyed look.

Perhaps that look’s usefulness isn’t solely limited to her family or maybe it’s the mention of Catelyn Stark. Either way, Elyanna swears the lord’s slight smile grows just a bit warmer and after a moment of hesitation he inclines his head.

"It is true, the Lady Stark and I were very close as children," Lord Baelish agrees and gestures for her to follow him as he walks further into the garden. "We have since— grown apart a bit, as childhood friends inevitably do. But I don’t think Lady Catelyn has changed much over the years. At the core, she has always been a credit to her House. A true Tully if there ever was one."

His tone is ringing with genuine admiration.

"_Family, Duty, Honor_," Elyanna intones, years of lessons finally paying off. Sister Barba would be so proud. If, you know, Elyanna left out the part where she’s trying to interrogate a lord regarding a potential spirit to summon. Sister Barba might actually have a heart attack if that bit was mentioned.

"Indeed." Lord Baelish’s smile twists. "Lady Catelyn lives and breathes these words, always has. I highly doubt this will ever change. She loves easily and with all her heart, but it is her family that comes first. Always has been."

Elyanna thinks of a woman pleading for her son’s life, thinks "_Not my daughter, you bitch!_", thinks of the fierce look in Mother’s eyes and— she knows a thing or two about women like that.

"She sounds like a remarkable woman." They exchange a small smile.

"She was initially betrothed to Brandon Stark, wasn’t she?" Elyanna continues after a moment. "You must’ve still been in Riverrun at the time. Did you ever meet him?"

At that, Lord Baelish’s expression darkens, though the smile remains untouched on his lips. Elyanna wonders whether it was ever real at all.

"I did indeed have the pleasure of making Brandon Stark’s acquaintance." The sentence is clipped — and no wonder, really, considering they’re talking about the man that almost cut Petyr Baelish open from shoulder to waist, if Lyanna’s claims are to be believed.

"Really?" A perfect copy of Joffrey’s gleefulness when discussing a tale of one of his favorite heroes. "What was he like?"

"He was a Stark," Lord Baelish states, noticeably cooler now, and there’s a note of something Elyanna can’t decipher in his voice. "Talented with a sword and a bit of a temper, as far as I recall. Wilder than his brothers, more hot-headed and hot-blooded or so they say. But I’m certain he would have done right by Lady Catelyn, if it hadn’t been for that— unfortunate business."

From the added edge to those last words, Elyanna doesn’t think he means them. At all. But that’s why she’s come to Lord Baelish over anyone else, isn’t it? She’s already asked Lyanna Stark the same question, but that’s his sister speaking. Judgements on a man’s character carry their own weight when they’re uttered by said man’s enemies.

"Is there a particular reason the Starks have peaked your interest so, my princess?" Lord Baelish asks smoothly.

"Not particularly." Elyanna is careful to keep her voice light and unbothered, attention already drifting off to different matters. "Sister Barba told me about the origins of Father’s rebellion today and after all the tales I’ve been told about Lyanna Stark’s tragic fate, I suppose I was interested in the others whose deaths’ led to the fall of the Mad King. The ones they don’t tell tales about."

Lord Baelish nods slowly. "Not everyone is meant to be remembered by the world, Princess Elyanna. Don't forget that."

_Whose names would the world remember if you were to write history?_ Elyanna wonders but doesn’t ask.

"I won't."

*

"You’re not getting better." Joffrey doesn’t ask. He says the words like an accusation, a death sentence. Unfortunately, he might not be too far off with that assumption.

Things between them haven’t been _tense_ exactly. That would be too simple a term to describe the convoluted, unstable mess that is their current relationship. Joffrey goes back and forth on giving her the cold shoulder, snapping at her at every opportunity he has and suddenly slipping back into their usual banter and shared eye-rolls at their parents’ immaturity as though nothing’s changed. Elyanna herself flips back and forth between feeling guilty for everything she’s putting her brother through and losing her patience with him because there’s only so many barbs she’s willing to endure before she bites back.

_It’s complicated_ is putting it mildly.

"No."

No more lies. That’s what Joffrey has demanded in return for his silence on the magic issue and Elyanna’s suspicions regarding Pycelle. Because why bother with confessions when you’re only doing it half-way? Elyanna is determined to keep her word on this.

And the truth is, she feels better for it. [The truth is, she’s scared of her own reflection these days.]

"What are you planning to do about it?"

Elyanna would bet her bow that Joffrey purposefully doesn’t look at her as he asks that question. He pretends to completely focus on his dagger — a small, elegant blade Elyanna had gifted him for his eleventh name day because however dishonorable the weapon supposedly is, it beats to be the one wielding it rather than the one dying by it — but that’s a daily routine for him. Nothing that requires his full concentration, that’s for sure.

Sadly, it doesn’t make his question any easier to answer.

_Yeah, El. What _are_ you gonna do about it? Besides trying to start a creepy collection of dead Starks and eyeing Pycelle like he might try to exorcise — or would that be scien-cise? — you any moment?_

She settles on a weak, "I’m not quite as bad off as I used to be." It’s a useless excuse and she damn well knows it, but it’s also all she’s got.

Joffrey lifts his head then. Makes a point of moving slowly, dragging his gaze up her body like he’s got all the time in the world to take every little detail in.

"If you’re going to kill yourself, the least you can do is have the guts to say it to my face."

The words are like a physical hit — and Elyanna is so tired of playing the victim to her brother’s moods.

"I’m _not_!" she snaps back. "I have no plans to kill myself. Believe it or not, brother, I want to live. I want to be strong, I want to be healthy, I want to be free of this useless shell." She gestures wildly towards her body. "But none of that changes that I’m dying and until I figure out why, there’s nothing I can do to stop it."

"You could stop using magic," Joffrey shoots back, as unwilling to back down and concede defeat, however temporary, as every other member of their family.

"Maybe," Elyanna allows, although the truth is she’s not sure her control is good enough to make that happen. "But that would only slap a bandaid on an open wound, Joff. It wouldn’t actually fix the problem. I’ve been sick since long before I started to talk with ghosts. It’s only gotten worse over the years. You have to know that. I’m sure Mother and Father had many a talk with you on the subject."

Understatement of the century, that one. Joffrey snorts as though in agreement with that thought. Sometimes Elyanna swears how in-tune they are isn’t natural. [Sometimes she wonders if maybe magic has always played a bigger role in her life than she’s realized. But what’s the point in trying to prove a negative?]

Joffrey puts his dagger aside just so he can demonstratively cross his arms and glower at her, the very picture of a belligerent younger brother.

"Even if that’s true, it still means you’re knowingly and purposefully cutting your time even shorter," he says with that stubborn furrow between his eyebrows that tells Elyanna better than his posture that he’s not going to let this go.

"What am I supposed to do? Just sit around here, save all my energy for my stitching and wait to die?" There’s no keeping the bitterness out of her voice now and Elyanna is done trying. If this is supposed to be her second chance at a life, the Powers That Be really fucked it up. "I’ve listened to your concerns and I’m aware of the risks. But if the only way I have of maybe getting to the bottom of all of this is by using magic, then that’s what I’m going to do."

"But you’re not!" Joffrey explodes. Jumps of from his sitting position in a whirlwind of motion and undirected rage. "You’re sitting around meeting dead people for tea, not doing anything useful! You’re not even trying to heal yourself or— or telling some ghost to spy on Pycelle or _anything_. You know what I think?" Malice coats Joffrey’s voice, sharper than the dagger he has so easily discarded. "I think you’ve finally found something you can do that no one else can. And you don’t care that it’s killing you, not really, because that’s the one thing you’ve always wanted, since Father forbade you from taking sword lessons. You look like Father when he’s on his forth cup of wine when you talk about magic and you don’t care that the world’s getting blurry around you! You don’t care about Mother or Father or me. All you care about is getting more of your magic and fuck what happens to you or everyone else!"

By the end of his tirade, Joffrey is breathing hard, hands balled into fists by his side, body shaking with the force of his fury.

Elyanna is chalk-white but underneath the shock, the hurt, the horror, her own anger uncurls steadily, seeps into her cold limbs with an ease that should perhaps worry her — if she had the mental capacity to process it.

"You don’t know what it’s like." The words are a whispered, trembling thing, but they hold a rawness that all of Joffrey’s shouting can’t match.

Of course that doesn’t stop her brother. He scoffs, body oozing derision from every pore in a way that’s never before been directed at _her_. "What what’s like? Being a _girl_?" he sneers.

"No." Elyanna _laughs_. "Being dead before your body ever hits the ground. Feeling like you’re half a person or maybe even less than that." There’s something freeing about voicing these thoughts that she’s never had the courage to express before this day and even though Elyanna knows she should quit while she’s ahead, she can’t stop.

"Do you know what it’s like to feel like you’re just a shadow, a pale imitation of yourself? Like half your body is so numb, you can barely even feel, but you still know it’s there. And even though you don’t understand what you’re missing, you _know_ that you aren’t whole. Do you have any idea what that’s like to feel like half of who you are is just beyond your reach? To think that maybe not knowing would be preferable to this— this _incomplete_, _pointless_ existence?"

In the wake of her outburst, Joffrey doesn’t say anything. He just stares at her for a very long moment, wide-eyed and maybe a little scared. Then he turns around, collects his dagger and walks to the door. He pauses right before he pulls it open and—

"When you decide that your life, here, with us, is good enough for you, let me know," Joffrey says, voice almost steady. "You always know where to find me."

The door falls shut behind him before Elyanna can think of anything to say.

*

Elyanna doesn’t reach Brandon Stark.

Sometimes she thinks she almost has him, almost takes hold of his hand and pulls, but then she hears it, a steadily increasing noise of voice over voice over voice, yelling, talking, shouting, _screaming_—

Louder and louder, until it’s all she hears, all she is, and try as she might, she _can’t_—

[She wakes up drenched in sweat, head burning, and screams into her pillow until her throat is raw and the voices inside her mind are quiet.]

*

He is surprised but not to see a familiar face waiting for him at the home he’s currently staying at. [Surprised because a request as serious as a _name_ of this much significance takes time. Most names can and will be accepted by any Faceless because Death cares neither for reputation nor riches. The Order doesn’t discriminate, not regarding clients or targets. Like most things in life, it’s a blessing and curse in one.

That said, when there are rules, there are exceptions, and certain names require more than that. Those names need to be carried back to the House of Black and White. Have to be offered to the One God. Are His to claim and require His judgement in return.

And Princess Elyanna of House Baratheon has been Known since the day of her birth.]

The choice must have been an easy one then, more so than No One has anticipated. Or else the face wouldn’t have returned so soon after the initial offering.

He enters the tiny room on light feet, no hesitance or anticipation in his movements. There is nothing to fear from this meeting. No more than from any meeting with a fellow face at least.

"A name has been offered," the face says as soon as No One has closed the door behind him. It speaks softly, barely audible, and not for the first or last time he wonders whether it will be this face that will one day give him the gift.

"It has," he confirms when the face pauses, watches him expectantly. There is no apology or guilt in his tone, he knows, because he doesn’t feel either. Has no reason to. No matter the outcome, the choice will be the correct one in the end. Death will ensure it. That No One trusts in full.

The face inclines its head. Whether in acceptance or condemnation, No One can’t tell and doesn’t care to find out.

"A name has been rejected."

The announcement is so calm, so unexpected, that it takes No One a moment to fully comprehend the meaning of the face’s words.

He— stills.

[No One doesn’t know what he expected, what outcome he hoped for. Probably neither. He isn’t meant to hope, one way or another. Eon though. Eon had hoped for this, he knows. On the surface, at least, Eon had grown fond of the odd girl with the soft voice that saw more than most and yet not what really mattered. He’d been hesitant to hand her the gift, hesitant and eager both, for that very reason. Knowing it is not meant to be, a name not his to take— There is a sense of relief to it, an absolution. And yet.

There is a finality to this outcome as well. No name is rejected without reason.]

"Why?"

The face observes him for a moment. No One isn’t sure what it sees. Nor does he know what he wants it to see. There is nothing to hide, Eon’s genuine curiosity as easily dismissed as his warm affection for an inconsequential child, and No One welcomes the blankness that is his constant companion. Whatever it is the face sees though, after a moment it nods its head and indulges him.

"Elyanna Baratheon’s life is her own," it says. From someone else, someone less trained, less knowing, the words would have been a kindness, a relief. Coming from a face, spoken towards another of its kind, there is no hiding the truth, for they both understand all too well what goes unsaid. Read the damnation between the lines.

When the face continues, it’s words are nothing but a sigh — not of resignation, for that would imply a level of emotional attachment it doesn’t possess, but almost companionability, like it, too, feels the weight of the chains these words represent, the loss of the paths they forever block — "Death has spoken."

"Death has spoken," No One echoes numbly. An acceptance and a confirmation that he will honor the judgement that has been made, no matter what he may or may not feel on the matter. It’s the only possible answer. After all. He is No One and No One isn’t supposed to feel.

[Underneath the surface Eon sighs, grateful for a friend not yet lost and disappointed for the denial of an act of mercy despite himself. He should have foreseen this, maybe, should have acted first instead of asking for permission. Now that he has played his hand, he will be watched, and the alternative that he has never allowed himself to think of too much when the little princess’ head rests lightly against his shoulder, so close that he can smell the sweat and the omnipresent air of sickness on her, can no longer come to pass.

_Forgive me, Elyanna_, he thinks and wonders whether she’ll ever know what this verdict will cost her.]

*

Five moons pass. It’s the longest time Elyanna has ever fought with her brother — with anyone she’s ever cared about, as far as she remembers — and it’s awful. It’s awful, but somehow they manage. They don’t meet up for archery practice anymore, but Elyanna isn’t convinced that her body could take it, so that might be more of a hidden blessing than she’s willing to admit. And she doesn’t sneak into her brother’s room after dark anymore.

But it’s not like they suddenly don’t talk anymore. They life in the same keep, and it’s not so easy to avoid each other when they’re both required to be in the same room at least three times a day. Besides when their parents are being stupid, Joffrey is literally the only other sane person around — Myrcella and Gwyneth don’t count. Elyanna has high hopes for them, but Myrcella is only three years old and Gwyneth even younger. Neither of them is much of a help in corralling their parents into being half-way functional human beings, never mind King and Queen.

There’s simply a tension there that they don’t acknowledge. A new way in which Joffrey looks at her — no longer with what Elyanna now suspects used to be hero-worship but with something measuring, calculating, almost like he’s wondering how many more days she’s got left — and even though no one comments on it, Elyanna is sure that her close family, at least, notices. It would be hard not to.

Still. Things aren’t how they used to be and Elyanna definitely misses spending time with her brother like she used to, but there’s something _secure_ about the entire fight that throws her for a loop every time she thinks too much on it. Joff’s her brother and logically Elyanna understands why he’s angry with her — understands that she fucked up somewhere along the way and they’re both too damn proud to make the first step towards full reconciliation — and she also knows that at least half the reason is that Joffrey cares for her. Loves her even, maybe.

And, more importantly, Elyanna loves him.

She’s never really understood it before. That security that lies in fighting with someone but knowing they still got your back when it counts. She’s had friends before — even though sometimes she struggles to recall their names — but it’s not the same. Not quite.

[There’s something like betrayal lingering on the edges of those memories, something deep inside her that shies away from them, and Elyanna has too many other battles to fight to focus on this one on top of everything else.]

The point is, on Joffrey’s twelfth name day it doesn’t matter how long they’ve been fighting or how often they’ve rehashed the same argument when no one else is around to listen. What matters is that her little brother is growing up. She’s gotten him a bow she’s made herself — carved stags and lions into the wood by hand, which had been a pain because her hands start shaking whenever she works for more than a few hours, but it’s the closest thing to a peace offering that comes to mind — and even though Joffrey is genuinely delighted by it, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that her gift pales in comparison to their father finally agreeing to take Joffrey with him on his next hunt.

[The constant refusals have been scrapping away at her brother’s self-esteem for two years now, and Father’s grudging agreement brings a bright smile to his face that they haven’t seen in too long. Even Mother looks lighter, younger, this morning. Watches over them with a soft smile and doesn’t chide Joffrey for his wild gestures and restlessness. He’s excited and it’s good.

It’s contagious.]

*

The day of the next hunt comes quickly. With how often Father likes to indulge himself that’s hardly a surprise. He probably does it to get away from the Red Keep — the throne, the family and everything they can’t measure up to — but Elyanna has long stopped losing sleep over that line of thought. At least she’d like to think so.

In any case, it’s the short waiting period is definitely a good thing. Joffrey is incapable of sitting still for more than five consecutive seconds during the days leading up to the hunt. His palpable excitement is so unlike her brother that it never fails to make Elyanna smile. It’s adorable, especially how Joffrey can’t seem to stop grinning.

[And it takes Elyanna aback, how that wide smile transforms his face, how boyish and young. He won’t be a boy for much longer — never really got the chance — but in those moments Elyanna can’t for the life of her imagine him as anything but the little babe that used to toddle after her and copy her poses down to the cocked hip and raised eyebrow.]

The day of the hunt, Joffrey wears is best clothes and stands tall and proud. He’s also carrying the bow Elyanna has gifted him, which is the only reason why she doesn’t tell him that he looks like a puffed-up peacock.

Myrcella and Gwyneth are both there to see Joffrey off — Mother insisted and Elyanna wasn’t too far behind. This is important to Joffrey and for all of Father’s grumbling and growling, it’s a statement towards the rest of the household as well.

In other words, Elyanna wouldn’t miss it for the world. Still. As Joffrey’s big sister, there’s certain duties she has to fulfill.

"Don’t hurt yourself or anyone else with your arrows!" She teases. "And don’t get run over by a boar!"

Joffrey’s eyes light up at the challenge and his grin transforms into a well-known smirk that Elyanna suspects will become his smug signature look soon enough.

"I wouldn’t dare disappoint my most gracious teacher so."

Father calls out for him then, impatience already heavy in his voice, and Joffrey darts forward to bestow a barely-felt kiss onto her forehead.

"I’ll be back soon, sister. And I don’t plan on returning empty-handed."

Then he swings himself into the saddle and with a shout from Father, the deafening drum of hooves and a last wave from Joffrey, they’re gone.

*

[The party returns with as much fanfare as they left a day later. Joffrey, tired and dirty and so _proud_, presents Elyanna the spoils with a simple but heartfelt "For you, sister mine," that feels heavier than it should. Mother showers Joffrey in praise and even Father compliments him for a job well done.

"Nice shot," she murmurs and kisses his cheek because it _is_. It’s a clean kill, an arrow straight through the eye. Impressive.

_He’s growing up_, Elyanna thinks and blames the mixture of glee and hurt imbedded in that realization for the shudder of _something_ that races down her spine at the sight of the dead stag tied to the back of her brother’s horse.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry for how long this chapter took and I hope the length at least makes up for some of it. Unfortunately, I have more bad news: Updates will continue to be ridiculously slow this month. All my papers are due either in December or early January, and I simply don't have as much time to write right now. But don't worry, come mid-January my schedule will clear up again and I'll hopefully be able to return to my previous posting schedule.
> 
> That said, I hope you enjoyed the interaction with Lord Baelish! (And finally got some insight into Elyanna's thoughts on the rest of the Council. That counts for something, right?) Writing Joff&El was an awkward pain because they're both stubborn as hell, but I think it works with the stress their relationship is under.
> 
> Also, for those of you who have more questions than answers after Eon's part, please share them in the comments! I'm planning a longer piece from his side in the next chapter in which his motivation will be explained more clearly and it would help if I know what confuses you the most!
> 
> I've been wanting to write that very last scene for a while now - three guesses why - and while I'm not entirely happy with it, it's as good as it's gonna get right now. Hope you enjoy the air of foreboding *cackles*
> 
> I wish all of you a wonderful Sunday and a great start into December!! And if you have the time, please let me know what you think of this chapter (What was your favorite part? What was unexpected or threw you for a loop? Inquiring minds want to know!!) in a comment!


	17. part xvii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It would be terribly callous to demand more than you’ve already been given, wouldn’t it?"

_295 AC_

The tension between Elyanna and Joffrey eases with time, but it doesn’t fully dissipate. Elyanna knows full-well that this is mostly her fault. She still hasn’t apologized to Joffrey, hasn’t reached out to him on her own.

[She’s not ready to give up on her magic for good, give up on the life it reminds her of and everything she lost with it.]

Mother, of course, is aware of their fight, even if neither of them have told her the true cause of it. It’s no coincidence that Myrcella and Gwyneth spend many an evening in Elyanna’s private chambers — hours that previously were reserved for the two oldest siblings — sometimes in company of their minders, sometimes with Mother. Elyanna tells them stories, even though Gwyneth is too young yet, to truly appreciate or remember them. The same stories she used to tell Joffrey, years ago, under the cover of darkness in his own rooms.

Myrcella loves them, the adventures of the little Snaketongue and the Servant Girl with the Travelling Cupboard being her personal favorites. With the kind girl, Elyanna spends less time on weaving moral lessons and hints into her tales and more time covering wildly different, magical worlds, filled with dragons and hippogriffs and merpeople. Sometimes, on the rare evenings where they are completely alone, Elyanna will tell them stories of the far North. Of a wall taller than the human eye can perceive, built entirely out of ice and determination. Of the wolves that govern the wall to this day and the lost lands of shadows and frost that lie beyond it.

And sometimes, when she gets carried away, Elyanna will speak of a lost kingdom called Scotland, with its old castles and unforgiving winds. Of deep woods holding too many secrets and dangerous pathways that forever curve and change in unexpected direction. Those are the tales Gwyneth likes the most.

Unlike Mother and her younger siblings, her father is a rare visitor. Perhaps it was one of the few concessions Father has made to Mother in light of their deteriorating marriage: the children are predominately left to her. Even Joffrey, the direct heir to the Iron Throne, hasn’t received much of Father’s attention until he's turned twelve. It’s a bit late to start his proper education as a king in Elyanna’s opinion, but what does she know about raising kings?

As for Myrcella and Gwyneth, Elyanna honestly isn’t sure her father even knows that her sisters exist. Or if he does, he doesn’t seem to care about them one way or another. Maybe it’s because they were girls, maybe because they are too young. Either way, Elyanna is not impressed with his conduct — and that’s before you get to his actual behavior when he is in a room with his very impressionable children.

None of that means Elyanna doesn’t care for her father — loves him, in fact. He _is_ her father and he loves her and those facts make it hard to hate him even when his breath smells like alcohol and voice is more disparaging than it has any right to be.

That’s why despite the harsh arguments between her parents and his rumored vile behavior, Elyanna doesn’t hesitate to welcome him into her chambers when he decides to show up. Rare as it is, it _does_ happen.

On this particular evening, Elyanna is especially thankful for the company. The Grand Maester has put her on bedrest again — a precaution, he insists, though she’s not sure she can trust his words — even though Elyanna hasn’t tried her hand at magic since her last fight with Joffrey. Not that she’s told him that, she doesn’t want him to get the wrong impression. Besides so far the result of her self-imposed magic ban doesn’t strengthen Joffrey’s position in the least. Elyanna has no more energy than she did before — as highlighted by the fact that Joffrey doesn’t even suspect that she’s stopped summoning ghosts — nor has her physical health improved in any way.

[She’s getting worse, she knows that all too well. If things continue as they are right now, she may never see her fifteenth name day. There’s an odd symmetry to that thought, although Elyanna can’t put her finger on why that is.]

"Elyanna!" Father greets her, his usually bellowing voice soft in the way it only ever gets when he addresses her. "You look stunning as usual, dear child." His smile looks more convincing than Mother’s does as well, despite Mother being usually a better liar.

Elyanna grins despite herself.

"Someone had to compensate for your looks, Father dearest."

Father laughs, delighted as always when she chooses to indulge in a sharp remark that could just as easily earn her a slap if she were anyone else. "Your mother would have my hide for that cheek of yours," he says and Elyanna doesn’t think she imagines the satisfaction with which he says those words.

She ignores that. [It’s not supposed to get easier, but you can grow used to anything — eventually.] Settles down in her bed, covered in more blankets than is probably practical because those layers are needed these days to keep the cold out of her bones, and asks the same thing she always does when Father stops by: "Will you tell me another story?"

*

Elyanna stares straight ahead into the darkness of the night. The lights of King’s Landing have long been extinguished and thick clouds hide moon and stars alike. Like this, the world could go on forever or end just a few steps in front of her and Elyanna wouldn’t know the difference.

_That’s what it feels like_, Elyanna thinks with less bitterness than she expected. _Being alive_. It’s like standing on the edge of an abyss, except you don’t know where precisely the ground beneath your feet will disappear. You only know it will happen at some point and that you won’t be fast enough to jump back and safe yourself.

It’s stupid, this sense of melancholy that’s clinging to her these days, as stubborn as Gwyneth at her worst. In all honesty, Elyanna is almost fifteen. That’s— more than most people in this world have. Not to mention that she’s spent those years in significantly better conditions than 99.9 percent of the population. Does she really get to complain about drawing a short stick when she’s the daughter of a king? At a time were titles still mean everything and she’d probably have died shortly after her birth if royal resources hadn’t been available to her?

And yet for all that Elyanna often feels older than her body would indicate — often feels lost and out-of-place and like there’s so many things she’s missing that she can’t even figure out the questions she’s supposed to ask — she can’t help thinking _it’s not fair_. Matter of fact, it’s getting harder and harder to think much of anything else lately. Which, Elyanna is self-aware to realize, probably isn’t a good thing.

Maybe if she was facing an unavoidable battle it would be different. Maybe it’s not so much death itself but the way she’s wasting away that’s bothering her. Or maybe it’s the knowledge that even with all she has been gifted with — Joffrey, her parents, her sisters — all Elyanna can focus on is what she’s missing.

_What are you?_

Eon’s innocuous question echoes in her head. Has been haunting her for months now, all the more so since she’s figured out the correct answers. The answers he’s asked her not to share unless she wants to. Because — as she’s come to understand in the last days — this isn’t a question meant to satisfy Eon’s curiosity or challenge her to think in different ways. That would have been kind and Eon is many things, but kind is not among them.

_What are you?_

_Elyanna Baratheon._

In the wake of her wordless response, inevitable the next question follows. Merciless. Relentless. And though it was Eon, who has first asked her, Elyanna doesn’t hear him now. Hasn’t for a while. Ever since their terrible argument, the only voice she hears in these moments is Joffrey’s.

_What do you want to be?_

Truth is, the answer is simple, obvious, selfish, horrible. Is _Harry Potter _because Elyanna may aim for kindness, but most days she falls short in one way or another and she can never figure out if it’s because something inside her is broken or because there’s something inside her she doesn’t want to fix.

_Leave_, Eon murmurs.

_Where?_ Elyanna asks inwardly. She already knows, of course. The real question she wants to ask is _Why?_. And with her time running out the way it is, she’s getting tired of waiting for an answer.

*

It’s been a while since Ella the servant girl last passed through the lower halls of the Red Keep. But the path’s haven’t changed in three hundred years and the lost baby fat that makes the little girl look gaunt — hollowed out almost — only makes the charade more believable.

Elyanna navigates through King’s Landing’s usual mid-afternoon crowd with practiced ease. She feels more energized than in weeks today. Which is fortunate because she honestly isn’t sure she would have made the trip all the way to Eon’s favorite place otherwise. And wouldn’t that have been a hard thing to explain away to her parents — if the gold cloaks even found her, that is.

Perhaps being cooped up inside her room all the time is getting more to her than she’s realized. Whatever the reason though, Elyanna isn’t complaining. Not when it allows her to sink down on the sun-warmed stones besides Eon, out of breath but otherwise no worse for wear.

"It’s been a while since you’ve graced me with your presence, m’lady." Eon, the bastard, doesn’t sound even a little surprised to see her. One of these days, Elyanna really wants to catch him off his guard. For her personal satisfaction, if nothing else.

"Turns out dying keeps you a lot busier than a princess’ regular duties." Elyanna smirks, the words sharper than her mother’s court smile. It’s a relief to make light of her health for once. To speak to perhaps the only friend she has in this city who won’t take it the wrong way.

"I’ll have to trust your judgement on the matter."

"I suppose you do."

"Why are you here?" Eon asks after a couple of minutes in which they both watch a merchant catch shout at a boy for attempting to steal while a little girl sneaks a couple of dried fish behind his back.

Perhaps the silent 'still' is just a result of her overactive imagination, but Elyanna tenses nonetheless. "Shouldn’t I be?"

Eon snorts. "You only visit when you want something, m’lady."

Fair enough.

"Then why bother to ask? I want the same thing I always want."

_Answers. Information. A breath of fresh air_.

"And what do you plan to give in exchange?"

Elyanna’s eyes follow the little thief who’s carefully maneuvering through the crowd. "What do you ask for?" It seems like a more fitting response than_ I missed you_, considering the context.

Eon is quiet for a moment. His fingers tap rhythmically against the stones. "Your question, if not your answer," is his eventual response and for the first time since they’ve started their odd, circular conversations Elyanna feels wrong-footed. Eon does not give anything for free. There is always a transaction, a system, no matter how nonsensical it may seem to an outsider. This is a breech of every rule they’ve built their interactions on and it doesn’t sit well with her.

Nevertheless, Elyanna does as asked. "You told me to leave once. Why?"

Eon chuckles. It’s a raspy sound and Elyanna wonders when he’s last had something to drink. She should’ve brought something with her perhaps, but it had slipped her mind. She’d been too determined to use the first chance she had to give her guards the slip to spend much time on preparing the deed.

"Because only one can stay," he says as though the words themselves are a profound revelation. Or a warning. Or perhaps both.

"One of what?"

Eon tilts his head. The motion reminds Elyanna of a confused puppy — which is definitely an odd comparison to make. A puppy is about the last thing she’d usually associate with him.

"You’ve received your answer. It would be terribly callous to demand more than you’ve already been given, wouldn’t it?"

Elyanna winces because those words — like everything Eon says — hit far too close to home. "Incredibly so," she agrees, forces her voice to remain light. Somehow she doesn’t think she’s fooling anyone, least of all Eon. Unwilling to give up when she’s already caught him in an unexpectedly giving mood, Elyanna asks instead, "Will you give me another answer the next time I visit?"

Eon inclines his head. "But of course, m’lady."

It should feel mocking. That it doesn’t inexplicably disturbs her more.

"And I can visit you as often as I’d like?" Elyanna checks because court has taught her a thing or two about word games and the trickery of carefully worded promises.

That seems to amuse Eon. Even the ratty cloth covering half of his face doesn’t hide the extend of his grin.

"You were always able to visit whenever you want, m’lady." Though if Eon’s aiming for a casual tone, he misses by a mile. "It’s your city, after all."

"I don’t know," Elyanna muses as she slowly rises. Her legs are a little shaky, but nothing that should keep her from making it home safely. She banishes that thought, lets her gaze glide over the organized chaos surrounding her instead. The dirty, haggard people, the constantly in-motion crowd, the city watch that turns too many blind eyes, the clever thieves and vicious souls carrying far too many blades in easy reach. "Is it?"

A sharp smile is her only answer.

*

Eon is glad to see Elyanna again and gladder still to see her leave. Figuratively speaking because Eon doesn’t bother to track her progress through the streets. Doesn’t risk a peak out from behind the thick fabric wrapped around his head. He doesn’t think he would like what he’d see.

[No One has always had keen eyes, something most of his trainers remarked on at one point or another. The offer to enhance his natural gift had been a double-edged sword. It gave him an advantage few could claim to have even among his own kind — for you could only improve what was already there, not build a tower on a stones of nothing — but it also came at a cost.

_You will see the truth_, the master had warned him. _There is a reason so few ever dare speak it, never mind seek it out willingly. You will not have that choice when everyone around you does_.

Like most warnings, No One has only understood their full meaning after the choice had already been made. That is no cause for regret or reason to lament though. No One has accepted the consequences. It’s all that’s left to do.

And there are many consequences.]

Because Eon exists in broad daylight, smack in the sight of so many, many people and interacts regularly with most of them, his sight is a bit of a hindrance. Unlike No One, Eon isn’t a Faceless. He cannot abscond emotions, cannot hide _knowing_ as completely. Even if he does not act on what he sees, sometimes people can tell. They realize you’ve _seen_ them because you’re the only one who does.

No One cannot afford that sort of attention, so Eon hides sight and face alike. In some ways, he is as Faceless as No One. It used to bother Eon. Though he had been trained to not rely solely on one of his senses and compensating for his cloaked view had been a good reminder, the lack of seeing had thrown him more off-balance than expected.

He relied on that hint, that extra edge, to read and understand people’s motivations more than he’d realized until he’d locked it away. And so, for all that it blurs the lines between No One and Eon more than is strictly speaking necessary, occasionally Eon cannot help but take a peak. Slip out of the blind cripple’s body and into that of a formless, nameless entity instead.

And so, when Eon met Elyanna Baratheon — or rather, Elyanna Baratheon met Eon — he hadn’t been able to resist. Even among the thick midday crowd on the lower level street market, Elyanna had stood out before Eon had even realized who he was dealing with. That had come later, when he’d noted the armed guards accompanying her, listened to her heated conversation with Ser Jaime Lannister.

In that first moment, she’d only been a small girl, perhaps a few years younger than Eon. Clearly of noble birth for she smelled too good and spoke to properly to be anything else and when she’d handed him the food, her hands had been soft and clean. So Eon had tilted his head forward just that slightest bit to allow him to peer over the edge of the bridge. Not enough to be noticed. Nothing more than a quick glance.

_A quick glance at the truth Eon cannot unsee._

[Eon’s glance lingers several fractions of a moment longer than he had intended it to. He needs that added time though, needs it desperately, for it takes him an unforgivable long time to process what it is his eyes are seeing.

What they see is this: A young child, five or six years old perhaps with wild, dark hair and startling green eyes. What they see is a face that should be pretty, where it not for its out-of-symmetry features and the jagged, bleeding wound that cuts it in half. On its left side, a bright eye is framed by thick, dark lashes that flutter against pale, unblemished skin, while the childish roundness of the flesh fails to fully hide the high cheek bone and slightly arched eyebrow. It’s jaw leads to an almost pointed chin, the look of a young child that hasn’t yet fully grown into its defining facial structure. The eyelashes of the right eye are thinner but longer and the brow sits a bit deeper, more furrowed than its companion. The right side’s cheek bone is not as defined, whereas the jaw bone is wider, stronger than its mirror.

Though each side makes for an attractive picture on its own, put together on the same face the sight is disorienting. Which is why it takes Eon longer than it should to realize that what he’s looking at is not a horribly disfigured child but something else entirely. The closest comparison he has is that of a very badly applied face that only covers half of a Faceless’ face. It’s not a complete fit because the part where the child’s face tears is in the middle, as though it’s being ripped apart from the inside out, but it’s the best he’s got for the moment. Eon can’t explain what it is he sees, doesn’t understand its cause or consequences, but he sees and he can’t unsee and he’s _fascinated_.]

As Elyanna grows, Eon keeps on catching glances of her face. Watches her grow into her features — both sets of them. It takes several years for him to realize that one half of her face is distinctly more feminine than the other — another question, another clue — and it takes much, much longer still to realize that he’s become invested.

Even as Elyanna grows paler, thinner and weaker though, the wound tearing apart her entire face doesn’t change, either to grow or to heal. Eon doesn’t know what to make of that either.

Having never seen anything similar in another person — not the Red Priestesses who use all sorts of magic to alter their appearance, not in his fellow Faceless who use all sorts of disguises — Eon and No One have both worked to uncover the reason for Elyanna’s, for lack of a better word, _condition_.

Among his first, vague guesses have been a magical experiment or curse gone wrong, a warging accident and some sort of soul merging — Eon has learned through some of the hushed gossip only spoken in the shadowiest corners of the Red Keep that Elyanna had a stillborn twin brother and has spent a considerable amount of researching whether she could have somehow absorbed part of his essence into herself.

It was that last line of thought that has led Eon onto a path he considers much more likely — soul circulation.

The Order of Black and White has had may a scholar dedicated to the mysteries of rebirth and reincarnation over the centuries. No One himself is fairly ambivalent towards the concepts, though in general he prefers to think of death as a final end — unless, of course, Death decides otherwise. As is his right.

He’s been kept in touch with a priest willing to look further into the phenomenon over the years, though so far the results have been limited. Most documented cases concern reincarnation — as such documentation relies heavily on a person admitting to their former life and sharing their experiences, whereas rebirth is almost impossible to keep track of.

Even then, neither quite fits what Eon has been observing in Elyanna’s development. Not until he’s asked a question so absurd, he still can’t really picture it — "_Could someone be both?_" — and the priest hasn’t rejected the possibility on principle.

_It’s impossible to say for certain_ leaves many stones uncovered.

["If it was," the priest says after a long, careful consideration, "The souls would have to be extraordinarily compatible. And even then, I suspect they could not fully merge as wargs never truly become one with their companions, no matter how closely bound."

No One doesn’t shift or purse his lips. He simply looks at the priest expectantly. "What do you mean to say?"

"While a scientific curiosity, I do not believe such a state of being would be capable of surviving. Not for long at least. Two minds cannot equally inhabit a body, and one cannot be in charge without the other ceding its power. I’d imagine it would be a constant state of war as the minds tear each other apart, fundamentally recognizing the other as foreign— not belonging and thus an enemy, if you will."

"Wargs can." It’s not a disagreement so much as a prompt for further information.

"Wargs exercise control over their animal counterpart. Their success depends on their strength of will more even than on their relationship with the animal in question," the priest counters. "In theory, one mind should be able to suppress the other, weaker one. But such control cannot be held for prolonged time and neither is capable of fleeing the body when a true fight breaks out. No, though it is certainly interesting to contemplate, I do not believe any human could survive longterm under such control. It would either shatter, thus rendering its willpower moot, or perhaps even die, leaving the dominant mind in charge entirely."]

Eon doesn’t agree with the priest’s conclusion. More precisely, he doesn’t agree with the statement that a state of two minds within the same body over prolonged periods of time is impossible. That it comes with side effects on the other hand? Well, wouldn’t that explain a lot about a certain beloved princesses’ continuously failing health?

No One doesn’t care one way or another, but Eon wants to help. More than that, if what he suspects is true — and it is the best explanation he has found for the _oddness_ he has observed in Elyanna — something needs to be done and soon.

Delivering Elyanna’s name had been a first — if not terribly well-thought out — attempt. Nothing and nobody understood the art of killing like a Faceless. If anyone has a chance of giving the gift to one soul in a two-souled body while sparing the other, Eon would bet on them. And if it failed, well. At least it would be quick and painless.

But Death has different plans — has declared Elyanna Baratheon untouchable for all those who understand the implications. _All_ the implications.

One of which Eon has been pretending not to contemplate since the Face first shared the verdict with him.

He simply hasn’t made his choice yet — whether to watch or to engage.

[Elyanna of House Baratheon, after all, is one name and one name only. That still leaves an entire soul of loopholes uncovered. And it isn’t _Elyanna_ whom Eon wants gone.]

*

Being bedridden for the better part of a week — not to mention grounded because while nobody knows she went out into the city, Elyanna’s absence has been discovered before she made it back into her chambers — after her little excursion gives Elyanna ample time to contemplate Eon’s words.

_Because only one can stay_.

She’s already bitten her lips bloody trice because she can’t seem to figure out what her friend is trying to tell her. What exactly is he referring to? And more importantly whom?

Her frustration is hardly helped by the fact that not only does Joffrey categorically refuse to visit her because of her _stupid inability to take care of herself_ but there’s another riddle whose answer has been eluding Elyanna for a while now.

It’s Grand Maester Pycelle and everything that’s wrong with him. Granted, that makes for a long list, but the point aren’t his personal vices or the way his gaze sends shudders down Elyanna’s spine. There’s something else that’s bothering her about the man. Something Elyanna struggles to put her finger on — which is exactly why it’s driving her completely crazy.

Perhaps it’s time to revisit his chambers the next time an opportunity offers itself up. Or, should that fail to happen sufficiently quickly, _make_ an opportunity.

In the end, that’s why Elyanna decides to summon Lyanna Stark once again. For the very simple reason that plotting against sleazy maesters is so much more fun when you’re not doing it alone.

[And if she’s tired of trying to please Joffrey — not that she’s stopped the summonings because of him or even told him that she’d stopped the summonings for her own damn reasons but that’s not the point — who can’t even bother to stop by and scream at her in person anymore. So what if she replaces her favorite scheming partner with the one she knows would Joffrey hate being replaced by the most, should he ever learn of it?

Maybe if he bothered to show his face once in a while, she wouldn’t have to.]

So she calls and — unlike Brandon Stark and other assorted summoning attempts she’s made over the last months — Lyanna answers immediately, completely at ease with spending the better part of the afternoon on Elyanna’s bed, braiding her hair and coming up with a decent plan to push Pycelle into revealing a secret Elyanna just can’t seem to guess at.

Not that she probably has anything better to do — though for all Elyanna knows, being dead could be a wild ride.

All in all, the entire thing is going pretty well. Right up until the doors are pushed open and her mother strides in, at least an hour ahead of her usual schedule, only to freeze at the sight of the young woman kneeling next to Elyanna.

Elyanna’s never seen her mother lose all color like that, not even when she and Father have been throwing the worst kind of accusations at each other. She sways on her feet and Elyanna has pushed herself half-way off the bed to steady her before Mother regains her balance, one hand pressed against the stone wall as though it is the only thing keeping her upright.

"Lyanna Stark." Mother chokes on the words as though— well, as though she’s seeing a ghost.

"Cersei Baratheon." Lyanna’s voice isn’t any more pleasant than Mother’s, if decidedly less shocked.

Elyanna sits there, frozen in an upright position and completely unable to tear her eyes of the train wreck happening in front of her. She should probably say something — _wants_ to say something —

but when she opens her mouth to explain why her father’s dead love of his life is in her room, no explanation comes to mind.

"What in the Seven Hells are you doing with my daughter?" Mother growls the words like a lioness preparing to defend her young. Knowing her mother, Elyanna really isn’t surprised that the woman jumps straight over the existence of a very real ghost to the potential threat it could pose to her child.

"I’m braiding her hair," Lyanna says in an impressively arrogant _duh_ tone of voice that sits about as well with Elyanna’s mother as throwing gasoline onto a fire might muffle the flames. "Which you would undoubtedly know about if you spent more time in your precious child’s company."

_Wonderful_. Lyanna on a warpath, purposefully enraging her mother. Just what Elyanna needs to make this situation any more complicated.

"_Step away from my daughter_."

Elyanna has never before heard her mother speak in such a cold, threatening tone of voice. Usually, she’s say that Mother is at her most dangerous when she speaks sweetly and smiles in kind assurance but right now she isn’t so sure. She definitely doesn’t want to stand in her way at the moment.

Lyanna doesn’t appear to feel the same way — or maybe self-preservation instincts become irrelevant once you die.

"Or what?" she sneers, the expression on her face uglier than anything Elyanna has ever seen on her. It’s more than obvious that there’s bad blood between the two of them. Elyanna just wishes she wouldn’t have had to find that tidbit out like this. "What are you gonna do? Kill me?"

As always, Mother rises to the challenge. Her eyes glint like broken glass in the sunlight and her smile is all teeth. "Don’t tell me you think yourself untouchable because you’re dead. That would be terribly short-sighted of you — not that you’ve ever been known for your foresight."

The amount of contempt Mother manages to convey in such simple sentence is awe-inspiring — or would be if Elyanna could see any way to save herself and possibly the rest of the Red Keep from the inevitable explosion.

"Excuse me?" Lyanna tilts her head in a childlike fashion, but her eyes are ice cold. "Don’t waste your pretty speech on me, Lannister. Say what you really want to say or have you forgotten how to speak the truth after all this time trapped in this poisonous city?"

"You may be dead, but your loved ones are still very much alive." Mother smiles coquettishly. "Are you really so naive as to think I have to touch you to threaten you?"

Whatever mask of calm Lyanna has been holding on until now vanishes so suddenly, the change gives Elyanna whiplash. Rage contorts Lyanna’s pretty features, so unexpected, so ferocious, Elyanna flinches at the sight of it.

"_You. Will. Not. Touch. My. Son._"

It should have been an echo of Mother’s on statement just a few moments before, but as terrifying as her mother can be, this is something else. There is something inhumane about Lyanna’s fury, that transcends the bounds of life and death.

It’s only because Elyanna is looking directly at her mother as Lyanna speaks that she sees the shock flash over her features, immediately hidden behind cool indifference.

"Your son?"

"YOU WILL NOT TOUCH HIM!" Lyanna screams. There’s no sign of the rationality her ghost usually displays.

"He is Rhaegar’s blood," Mother says, quick and clever and unforgiving. She has come to the same conclusion Elyanna has reached but sworn to herself never to contemplate, and in only a fraction of the time at that.Even as she speaks, the doors to Elyanna’s room are thrown open once again, this time by Ser Jaime. Really, it’s a miracle no one has heard the loud argument until now. And just like Mother, her uncle freezes at the sight of Lyanna Stark.

Unlike Mother, he doesn’t look like he’s going to pass out. He looks like he’s going to throw up.

Mother doesn’t so much as spare him a glance. Her gaze is fixed on Lyanna and she doesn't so much as flinch in the face of her wrath. Her words when she continues are as much of a death sentence as the executioner bringing his sword down.

"He’s a threat to the King’s reign." It's a statement, a fact.

Something ugly transforms Lyanna’s furious sneer then, a sort of hateful glee that finally jerks Elyanna into scrambling off the bed and towards Ser Jaime, who looks like he could use any moral support she can offer him. Until Lyanna’s response registers, that is.

"My son is no more of a threat than that incestuous little bastard you brother-fucking whore call a son ever was!" Lyanna snarls, low and vicious, an enraged wolf aiming for the throat. "And he has a better claim to the throne besides!"

Mother, Ser Jaime, Elyanna, time, everything just— freezes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took a bit longer than I thought, but hey, all in all this chapter isn't as late as I feared it would be. I hope you're as delightfully surprised by this update as I was! I honestly thought it would take me another couple of days to complete it. After I finished my essays, I took about a week and a half off of writing completely and just, you know, remembered what it's like to have a life. And to read. That I never seem to have as much time for as I want.  
Anyways, now I'm back. And Elyanna really is tired of the lack of action, so here we are, heading straight towards the inevitable explosion. Or is it implosion?
> 
> There's a couple of things about this chapter I'd like to briefly explain, however they do contain certain _spoilers_/meta information, so don't feel obligated to read on. You should be able to read the story just fine without my ramblings. That said:  
\- This last scene is pretty much the entire reason I included Lyanna's spirit in the first place *whistles innocently*. In this AU, ghosts are not the complete person but rather a spectre, something "left over" with a rough sense of that person. Lyanna as we see her here is not a fully conscious human and her actions and reactions reflect that. For example, her desire to protect her son is her driving force, as this is what was motivating her when she died. That doesn't mean that she's doing the objectively best to do so, only that she's _obsessed with protecting him_. That's why it doesn't occur to her that Cersei could be threatening anyone but him and she's irrationally lashing out when it would've probably been smarter to keep quiet about Jon's existence in the first place.  
\- Regarding the promised insight into Eon's head: There factors that Eon doesn't know about or may simply be wrong about, but overall his understanding of the situation is supposed to explain his motivation in naming Elyanna - and their interactions overall. Moreover his conversation with Elyanna in this chapter is a great example for the miscommunication that occurs in this story. For all that Eon's intended meaning is probably fairly clearly explained by his POV, Elyanna reads something completely different in his words that will have a strong impact on her actions in the next to chapters. So again, just reminding you that the characters are limited in their knowledge and understanding of the world. And let's face it, their communication skills suck.
> 
> Okay, I think that's enough rambling from my side, so. Please let me know what you think of this chapter and share your thoughts in a comment, I'd love to chat with you there!  
Also shameless self-advertising here: I've just started on the second installment in another purely Harry Potter series and will also be posting a oneshot in the next few days. Both works deal with a darker Harry Potter (though one takes it seriously, the other is pretty much crack, three guesses on which is which), so if that's the type of HP fanfic that interests you, give it a shot! ;)


	18. part xviii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [She’s so, so tired of children paying the price for their parents’ crimes.]

_295 AC_

_My son is no more of a threat than that incestuous little bastard you brother-fucking whore call a son ever was!_

The cruel words — their impossible implications — echo endlessly in Elyanna’s head. There is no denial and no escape. Elyanna doesn’t ask. Can’t bring herself to say the words "_Is it really true?_" out loud. She doesn’t have to.

It’s right there, written all over her mother’s usually inscrutable face. Elyanna has never seen her so open, laid bared so completely, and right now she wishes with all her heart she never had. This isn’t the kind of secret that is precious or useful. It’s the worst kind, the one that only hurts, whether it’s revealed or hidden in the dark.

She’s staring, Elyanna realizes and averts her eyes from Mother. Instead she meets Ser Jaime’s startled gaze, reads something that isn’t quite shame but closer to horror in his wide eyes. Green eyes so much like her and the possibility of where that thought could so easily lead flashes unbidden through her mind before rationality catches up with her.

[She hopes he cannot read the horrifying — if short-lived — suspicion in her expression as easily as she can his own fear of her reaction. But Uncle Jaime knows her well, has been a shadow accompanying her for as long as she can remember, so Elyanna doesn’t hold out much hope. She doesn’t know how to apologize for the thought either. Maybe she doesn’t even want to.]

"You—"

It feels like she’s choking on it. As though the revelation Lyanna has thrown out into the open with such casual cruelty is physically weighing on her, slowly but surely crushing her, splintering her bones, grinding her internal organs into dust.

"Elyanna—" her mother starts, one of these rare instants where she uses her real name, and Elyanna can’t. She can’t deal with this right now.

She _won’t_.

"Leave."

It’s nothing less than an order, issued in a tone of voice Elyanna has never before used when addressing her family, never mind her mother.

Lyanna Stark’s ghost dissipates without another word, though whether it’s the order or Elyanna’s fading focus that’s to blame for this development is another question she doesn’t care to think about. Ser Jaime, too, knows better than to argue with her — is probably relieved to escape this situation for the moment, if only to gather his wits again — while Mother remains standing, one hand pressed against the wall, eyes fixed on the spot Lyanna’s figure occupied a second ago.

Then she exchanges a glance with Ser Jaime over her shoulder that Elyanna couldn’t hope to interpret — and genuinely doesn’t want to, in light of recent events — before Uncle Jaime closes the door behind him. Softly, as though to somehow counter the shouts of the last few minutes. If only he could quieten the screams inside Elyanna’s mind as easily.

"Elyanna," her mother repeats and when she turns around to face her, her expression could be carved out of stone. Elyanna has seen statues look more alive. Though in all fairness, she probably looks the same.

"Mother, I— I can’t do this right now."

There’s too many things Elyanna needs to think about, to work out for herself before she’s ready for this confrontation. Before she can decide how she feels about this, what it will mean for her.

And perhaps Mother understands that, reads the beginnings of panic in Elyanna’s eyes, because she sighs and her shoulders slump in what may just be defeat. It should satisfy Elyanna, maybe, but the painful pang echoing through her at the sight of her ever strong mother folding into herself is so far removed from satisfaction, it’s not even funny.

"Well, you have to." For all that Mother looks smaller, more afraid than Elyanna has ever seen her, her voice is hard and cold enough to give Lyanna’s fury a run for its money."Elyanna, I need you to give me your word that you will not repeat those foul accusations to anyone and especially not to your father."

Still stuck in a mental maelstrom of _How could you_’s, it takes Elyanna a couple of moments to parse through what exactly her mother is asking. Her first, knee-jerk reaction is to reject her demand outright. It’s one thing to cheat on Father — not that Father doesn’t do more than enough of that himself, he could probably use a taste of his own medicine — it’s an entirely different thing to have Elyanna keep that same secret for her.

_If you can’t deal with the consequences, you shouldn’t have done it_, Elyanna wants to sneer, only just manages to swallow the words down before they turn into something she can never take back.

[_At least you have the decency not to call them lies to my face_.]

Forces herself to push aside her _angerdisappointmenthurtconfusion_ and think. Because Mother has done more than discreetly entertained a lover — though that deed alone is a crime of untold consequences. She’s slept with her brother. [Elyanna tries very, very hard not to picture the two of them, not to link _Uncle Jaime _and _Mother_ to the word sex. Not on their own and most certainly not together. It doesn’t work as well as she’d like.] More than that, she’s born him a child. A _son_.

"Robert would kill Joffrey if he so much as caught wind of an unfounded suspicion," Mother snaps when Elyanna remains silent for too long. "He might even go after the girls."

Elyanna’s had snaps up — she hadn’t even noticed she’d averted her eyes again. "They’re not— are they?"

She can’t bring herself to say it.

"No!" Mother takes a deep breath. Lowers her voice, but loses none of her intensity. "No. But that might not save them. Robert is not the most reasonable man at the best of times— and those have long passed."

The worst part is that, now that Elyanna thinks about it, she can’t even refute her claim. Mother is absolutely right. Father would never suffer a bastard child he hasn’t sired himself. Especially not as his primary heir and one day successor to the Iron Throne. And especially not if he can hurt Mother — get rid off Mother — by killing it.

Once again, Elyanna finds herself speechless as an all-encompassing _How could you do this to us?_ reverberates in her very bones. _To me? To Joffrey?_ Stares at the woman she’s loved and admired all her life and finds a stranger looking back at her.

A stranger who’s sentenced her brother to death for the crime of his existence. Who’s ruined his life before it ever started. Forget Father, what would the Seven Kingdoms do if the truth came out? Who would follow a bastard, one born out of incest no less? Who is supposed to rule in Joffrey’s stead and what is Joffrey supposed to do with his life— no. No. No one but the people involved, her and the dead know. There’s no reason — no time — to panic. Yet.

Unable to look at her mother any longer, Elyanna turns around and walks in stiff but determined motions towards her window. Stares outside at the city that looks the same as always because that, at least, is a sight she can still recognize.

"I will keep your secret," Elyanna says because there is no other option. Even if she cared not for Mother’s and Ser Jaime’s fate, she could never put her brother — half-brother, isn’t it, and that bites more than it has any right to — at risk like that. Could never hurt him like that. Then, because she has been raised among liars and vipers by a mother who might well be the worst of them: "And you, in turn, will keep Lyanna Stark’s."

"What?"

She chances a glance at her mother over her shoulder, who looks as startled as she sounds. Elyanna doesn’t care. She won’t be able to call Lyanna Stark again, she knows that now. Won’t be able to take the risk that she shouts Joffrey’s origins from the top of her lungs. It would only take one seed planted in the wrong pair of ears. Because screams can be silenced but whispers carry.

Mother likes children in general — or at least, hates them far less than any other person alive — but she’s called Jon Snow a _threat _and neither Baratheons nor Lannisters tolerate threats. Elyanna owes it to Lyanna Stark to ensure that her son will be free to live his life up North, far away from the capital and its so dearly coveted throne. She owes it to the shadow of a girl that kept her company and answered her questions when no other ghost has bothered to so much as show.

[She’s so, so tired of children paying the price for their parents’ crimes.]

"You wouldn’t risk Joffrey," Mother calls her bluff, arms crossed in front of her chest, eyebrows raised in disbelief. "You love him almost as much as he loves you."

Elyanna doesn’t bother denying it. She doesn’t bother with the accusations and insults brewing in her. Instead she does what her mother taught her to do. Keeps her face blank, her voice deadpan, stares straight into Mother’s eyes, level and confident.

"I would risk myself."

Mother starts, takes a half-aborted step towards her before she freezes again. "You—"

"The day you go after Jon Snow is the day I throw myself of the Tower of the Hand of the King."

It’s easy to say those words and mean them. So very, very easy. Mother is looking at her like she’s never seen Elyanna before — which makes two of them, really. Apparently, this is just a day filled with revelations.

"You would throw away your life for some bastard boy you’ve never met?"

"I don’t know. Would I?"

Elyanna doesn’t know if she would. Doesn’t know if she could do that to Joffrey, Myrcella and Gwyneth. What she knows is that her mother values the lives of her children more than anything — even revenge. If she can no longer trust in that, she can trust in nothing. And then what’s the point of this family?

None of those thoughts show on her face. Elyanna doesn’t allow them to. Only lets the stubbornness sicker through that she is so well known for.

Mother licks her lips and finally nods. "Very well. As long as the boy sets no foot into this city, I will pretend he doesn’t exist."

"And I’ll pretend you haven’t destroyed Joffrey’s life before it ever began." The words are too hard, but they’re out before Elyanna can think better of it.

Mother flinches like she’s been slapped and Elyanna should apologize, except the words refuse to come. It’s _wrong_. Everything about this situation is.

"Sweetling-" Mother says the nickname like a question and the last strands of Elyanna’s tenuous self-control snap.

"You should leave now,_ Your Grace_."

Even as she speaks, Elyanna knows that she will regret these words. That doesn’t stop her from saying them because right now? Right now, she _wants_ her mother to feel at least a small fraction of the hurt, the anger, the betrayal Elyanna is drowning in right now. And because she can't throw those emotions at her, can't leave her behind in a brewing storm that may destroy everything it touches, a cheap shot at her mother’s weak spot will have to do.

The words do what they are supposed to. Mother turns around. Reaches for the door, finally, only to pause again. Elyanna turns her gaze back towards the window before their eyes can meet and forces herself to remain unmoved in the face of her mother’s audible pain.

"_Elyanna_."

Closes her eyes.

"Just go," she says and only when the door shuts softly behind her mother does she open them again. Stares down at King’s Landing without seeing anything at all.

She wants to cry. To sob. To scream. To smile, bitter and brittle, at the tears she’s heard in Mother’s voice. But she doesn’t feel any satisfaction or accomplishment or even regret. All Elyanna feels is empty.

*

Over the next few days, Elyanna welcomes Joffrey’s continued avoidance of her. The less they see of each other, the less likely Joffrey is to notice something. What exactly he might notice, Elyanna isn’t so sure. It’s not like anything’s changed. [Has it?]

It’s not like their relationship is conditional on a shared father. And it's most certainly not like Elyanna blames him. [She blames Mother, she blames Ser Jaime, she blames Father and this entire messed-up society, but that’s another story altogether.] But right now she can’t look at him without thinking of her mother’s cold expression that didn’t quite mask the desperation underneath and she’s not sure what Joffrey would read in her eyes if he were to return her gaze, but there’s no doubt that there would be something there.

Something she can’t explain. Not without shattering his world. Joffrey deserves better than that. He’s putting himself under enough pressure as it is. The last thing he needs is yet another reason to doubt his ability to become a great king one day.

[And when did it stop being good and turned into great? When did she stop caring about that difference?]

That first evening, when Elyanna catches sight of Joffrey — taller, broader, more haggard-looking than she remembers — her first instinct is to pull him into a hug that promises she’ll never let go of him and tell him that she loves him, always and no matter what. That instinct is ruthlessly squashed by practicality. Not only would such a scene confuse him and draw undue attention, Joffrey would probably take it as some sort of deathbed goodbye and flip out again.

So Elyanna spends dinner and all the following meals for the next few weeks in silence. She doesn’t have anything to say to her mother, can’t say anything to her father for fear of what else she might add out of spite and won’t talk to her brother until she’s gotten her head on straight.

[Cause that turned out so well the last time, didn’t it?]

It doesn’t help that Joffrey doesn’t look so hot either. When he isn’t in lessons with his advisors, sitting in on council meetings or attending court, he spends every free minute in the training yard. _A warrior king, like his father_, the servants murmur and Elyanna chokes on her blueberry cake when she realizes that _yes, like his father indeed_. But the shadows under Joffrey’s eyes grow ever darker and really, she thought her brother is over that phase where he strives to be whatever his big sister is. There’s no reason for both of them to look like they’re already standing on Death's door.

Meals are an awkward affair these days, though not as tense as they ought to be. It’s clear that Mother is more affected by recent events than she’d like to admit, for she has a much, much shorter fuse when it comes to Father’s antics. Thus resulting in plenty of arguments that allow Joffrey, Myrcella and Elyanna to keep their heads down and eat as quickly as possible. It’s a good thing Gwyneth doesn’t regularly join them yet at least. Small mercies.

Unlike Joffrey, Mother attempts to reach out all the time. Elyanna knows she can’t avoid the woman forever — doesn’t even want to — but her constant pushing is grating on her last nerve. Right now, she can barely look her in the eyes. How does her mother expect them to have a good, productive talk that doesn’t end with them screaming insults and carefully chosen barbs at each other that cut them down to their bones?

At least Ser Jaime makes the situation somewhat easier. He’s been avoiding her almost as much as Elyanna’s been avoiding him. Considering he’s technically her sworn sword, that’s quite the accomplishment — and yet another fracture Joffrey will undoubtedly pick up on once he graces her with his presence again.

Luckily, it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen any time soon.

*

"What do you want, Mother?"

Elyanna doesn’t mean to sound so abrupt, but it’s almost a reflex by now. If only her mother would give her the time to fucking breathe, maybe she could figure out how to move past this. As things stand, though…

Mother laughs, though not as lightly as usual. "That’s the first time you’ve called me Mother since."

"Well, you are." Elyanna shrugs. "No point in denying that."

"You no longer wish to pretend otherwise?"

_I suppose I deserve that_.

"I never did." Elyanna sighs and finally turns to look at her mother. She looks older, somehow, though not as terrible as Joffrey does lately, and still hauntingly beautiful. "You’re my mother and I love you," she says simply. It’s the truth, after all, even if she rarely says it out loud. She’s just always assumed that her mother knows that, like she seems to know everything else.

Maybe she shouldn’t have though because her mother relaxes as though a great weight has been lifted off her shoulders. Elyanna wants to reach out and hug her, but.

"I love you," she repeats. "Nothing changes that. But I can’t forgive you. Not now. Not with this."

[_Your mistake puts my brother at risk._]

It needs to be said. Enough things have gone unspoken as it is.

*

"Elyanna? Elyanna!"

It takes Elyanna a moment to realize that she’s not dreaming. That someone is in fact calling her name. She blinks herself awake in her darkened room, candles long extinguished, to find a shadow bowed over her bedside. Her hand closes reflexively around the tilt of her favorite dagger — a gift from Ser Jaime, accompanied by a wink that said he knows all too well what she and Joffrey had been getting up to when no one else was watching back then — before her brain processes the intruder’s identity.

"Joffrey?!" Dagger forgotten, Elyanna jerks up — only narrowly avoids smashing her forehead against her brother’s in the process. "What’s going on? Is something wrong?"

"Shhh."

A habit ingrained from all sorts of questionable childhood adventures, Elyanna obeys without protest. Several moments pass in silence, with both of them listening for approaching footsteps, the mutters of a guard, any sign that they’re about to be discovered. Eventually, Joffrey sighs. Shrinks into himself as he does so.

"You’re really here." Elyanna feels much more awake now, bust she’s still half-convinced that she’s dreaming. There’s just no other way to explain how Joffrey’s currently in her chambers, sitting crosslegged on the middle of her bed, within touching distance, like he used to do all the time.

Of course, if this was a time like all the others, she would reach out and lay her hand on his upper arm. Wordlessly assure him that he’s not alone while he gathers his thoughts. Elyanna could do that — her brother’s close enough — but she’s not nearly as confident as she used to be that Joffrey will accept her touch. Or not dissolve into nothingness for that matter.

[_If it’s a dream, I’ll kill anyone who wakes me up_.]

Joffrey shifts, the motion more felt than seen. "Naturally. Where else would I be?"

If it’s meant to be funny, the joke falls flat.

Elyanna narrows her eyes at him, even though she knows perfectly well that he won’t see it. "I don’t know. You tell me."

"Oh, come on, El. You know I couldn’t visit you."

"Oh yeah? Why’s that?" Elyanna can’t help her colder tone, although she bites back the _you abandoned me_ just in time. It wouldn’t be fair or true. Rationally speaking, she knows that.

Joffrey sighs — bit like he’s trying to copy Ser Barristan and not yet managing it, a bit like he’s far, far older than his fourteen years would suggest. "You know why," he says quietly. "You’d have taken it as confirmation that you were in the right all along — which you’re _not_, if you’re wondering — and I’m just too proud to admit it out loud."

And well. He’s probably not wrong. Still.

"You’re here now."

At those words, Joffrey uncrosses his legs, leans back onto his elbows and stretches his legs out in front of him. He’s lying parallel to Elyanna now and isn’t looking at her — not that it makes much of a difference in the shadowed room.

"I got tired of waiting for you to finally admit you fucked up." The words themselves are harsh, but Joffrey says them lightly, companionably knocks their shoulders together. For some utterly inexplicable reason, it’s that gesture and not the words themselves that make Elyanna’s eyes burn. Gods, but she’s missed this.

"I fucked up."

It’s easier to admit that here, in the darkness, with no one but Joffrey for a witness. [He’s never counted the way other people have.] She still almost chokes on the words — if she’d just stopped when Joffrey’d asked her to, if she hadn’t summoned Lyanna again, her mother would’ve never walked in on the two of them. She wouldn’t have spent the past weeks hounding Elyanna, wouldn’t continuously question her on Lyanna’s ghost, wouldn’t watch over her shoulder as though the dead may appear behind her at any given moment.

[There would’ve been no argument, no ugly revelations, and she still wouldn’t _know_. Most days, Elyanna yearns for that ignorance, the precious blindness that would help her, her mother’s and even Ser Jaime’s peace of mind. But some nights, she lies awake, stares at her ceiling and pictures all the other ways in which her brother’s origins could’ve come to light. Could still come to light. Terrible, bloody pictures those are, and Elyanna takes perverse pleasure in knowing that at least some of them can’t come to pass anymore. When she doesn’t have nightmares from a thousand scenarios that could still come to true, that is.]

Then, because she might as well do this properly: "I’m sorry, Joff. You were right. I knew the magic was killing me and I kept using it anyways because it made me feel better about myself. I was selfish and a bitch about it."

There’s other things she wants to say as well, things Elyanna has to bite her lip hard enough to bleed to keep inside. She should probably tell Joffrey the truth now. Like this, with her face hidden in shadows, listening to her little brother’s even breaths, is about the only way she can imagine telling him. Mother may have sworn her to secrecy, but Joffrey? He deserves to know, perhaps more than anyone else in this castle. This is a secret that may one day cost him his life. The least she can do is help him prepare for the eventuality, ensure that the worst case scenarios she’s been contemplating never get the chance to turn into reality.

But.

How do you start a confession such as this? How do you say _You’re not my father's son_ without saying _You’re not my brother_? Is it even her place to start this conversation? Shouldn’t it be Mother, maybe even Ser Jaime? Shouldn’t he hear it from those who did it, those whose apologies might mean something once the first stage of shock and horror faded? Was now even the right moment? What with their fairly shaky reconciliation?

[Would there ever be a right moment for a conversation like this?]

"You’re quiet," Elyanna says. To fill the silence. To keep herself from filling it with something else.

Joffrey snorts. "Did you expect me to disagree?"

Joining his laughter should be harder, maybe. Then again, she might be overthinking things, as per usual. "No, I most certainly didn’t. We both know the only reason you mastered Sister Barba’s lessons on manners is because you had me help you cheat."

"Hey! I did no such thing as cheat and you can’t prove otherwise!"

"Neither could Sister Barba." Elyanna grins, recalling the suspicious look on the old woman’s face all too well.

The fabric rustles to her left as Joffrey takes her hand into his. "Thanks. For the apology."

"You deserved one," she murmurs and squeezes his hand tightly. They haven’t done this in too long— Joffrey will just have to stick around for some time. Until she stops sounding so ridiculously choked up every time he reaches out at least. That’s gonna get embarrassing fast.

Luckily, Joffrey doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he holds onto her just as tight.

It seems like an eternity passes like this, the two of them lying next to each other, hands closely entwined, listening to each other’s steady breaths. Elyanna may have fallen asleep for a moment there, but if she has, it’s still dark when she reopens her eyes.

"Elyanna?" Joffrey whispers at some point, voice rumbling with exhaustion and something softer than uncertainty.

"Hmm?"

"Do you love me?"

Elyanna blinks. Does it again. Slowly turns her head. She can’t make out Joffrey’s features, but his eyes glint in the weak light and that’ll have to do.

[This, at least, is an easy question, compared to everything they have and will have to talk about. That does not make it in any way, shape or form acceptable that her brother even feels the need to pose such an uncharacteristically insecure question.]

"Of course I love you."

Joffrey huffs, but whatever it is he wants to say, Elyanna interrupts him immediately.

"No, Joff. I mean it. You’re my family, my little brother, and I love you. No matter what happens or what you’ll do, I’ll always love you," Elyanna says intently.

"Promise?"

She might have shrugged it off, if Joffrey didn’t sound so utterly unlike himself — so childlike, so young — just then. Might have. But Elyanna’s had Joffrey’s back from the moment her mother first placed the tiny babe in her very uncoordinated arms. This is something she can do.

"I promise."

It’s the easiest truth she’s told in weeks.

["I love you too, El," Joffrey mumbles and presses a soft kiss against her forehead before he slips from her room, hours before daylight breaks.

Elyanna knows she’s going to regret her lack of sleep dearly in the morning, but it’s hard to remember that when her lips refuse to stop smiling and her heart feels several pounds of solid iron lighter.]

*

Despite her reconciliation with Joffrey, it only takes one more confrontation with her mother to make Elyanna snap.

["Fine," she hisses — quietly, there’s no need to attract curious ears, not for this — and drags her mother through the door, slams it shut behind her. "You want talk? Let’s _talk_."]

Elyanna is so sick of it. Of the Red Keep with its lies and deadly secret and all its inhabitants who are utterly incapable of not cutting off their own thumbs because of their blindness, selfishness and sheer idiocy. Of putting on all these endless masks. Of this rotten system that turns even the kindest heart inside out.

She’s tired of lying to everyone she cares about. Be it about other people’s secrets or her own.

["Don’t talk to me like that! You have a right to be angry with me, but I’m still your mother."

"Alright, _Mother_. Let’s hear it then. What’s your excuse for ruining Joffrey’s life and sentencing him to death?"]

Most of all, Elyanna is so _fucking_ tired of dying. She’s at a point where she can honestly say she wishes whatever is sucking the life straight out of her would hurry up and get it over with. This — spending all day in her chambers, having to listen to septas and maesters and, worst of all, Grand Maester Pycelle ramble on about how they really have no clue but they’re gonna spend the next hour talking anyways — has to be worse than whatever the afterlife holds for her.

She can’t even sneak off and spend her evenings in Joffrey’s rooms or go visit Eon. She physically isn’t strong enough. Getting to the dining hall trice a day is pretty much all that Elyanna can do without fainting or worse. Which just figures. She finally works things out with Joffrey — has completely sworn off magic, even — and now she’s stuck completely useless. All she gets to see is the pain in her family’s eyes every time they visit her.

Except for Gwyneth, whose too young to understand what’s wrong with her, and to a lesser extend Myrcella, who doesn’t fully grasp the meaning of 'dying'. She keeps asking how long Elyanna will be gone and if she’ll bring them a present from where she’s going. Joffrey actually turned on his heels and headed straight back to the training yard, the one time he caught that particular inquiry. From what Ser Jaime told her later — whilst still avoiding unnecessary eye contact — he utterly destroyed his opponent there.

["You don't understand, Sweetling. For all that you love your brother, you truly don't. How could you? Your twin was taken from you before you were old enough to realize what you'd lost. No one ever loves you the way your twin does and no one ever will. Jaime and I, we belong together. We shared a womb, came together into this world. We are one in ways people who aren't born with half a soul will never understand. A love so pure, how could it be a crime? How could it be anything but right?"

"You're _married_ and Uncle Jaime took the oath as a _Kingsguard_. That's what makes it a crime!"]

What Elyanna is least prepared for, though, is how unbelievable boring being on bed arrest truly is. And it’s different from previous times because this time there’s nobody ordering her to stay and there’s no one there to tell her it’ll only be for a week. Because she couldn’t do anything more even if she wanted to and it _won’t get better_.

Useless bloody grey rats can’t even put her to sleep to make it easier on her. A waste of space, that’s all that sad excuse for an order really is. If only she’d been born two thousand years later with actual hospitals, not this backwards society that relies on nebulous cure-alls produced by the Faith or a bunch of uppity assholes hoarding their precious knowledge like a jealous dragon. Elyanna honestly doesn’t know which wannabe sect she likes _less_, which is quite an accomplish—

_Hold on_.

Elyanna stills — not that it’s noticeable, considering she’s lying on her bed _like always_.

The maesters _do_ hoard their knowledge like it’s going out of style, don’t they? In most of the Greater Houses, particularly the smaller ones, the maester handles the ravens. Hell, Pycelle handles a lot of them as well, though he would probably be hard-pressed to get truly important news passed Varys and Littlefinger, not to mention Mother.

At least now Elyanna knows what’s bothering her about the grey rats so much — when has collecting important knowledge of all kinds in one group with a very strict belief system ever led to anything good? — even if it’s not much of a groundbreaking realization.

Of course, she _has_ been meaning to break into Pycelle’s little office. And is fast running out of time to do so. What’s the worst that could happen at this point? That she’ll be discovered? Elyanna lifts her arm and stares at it until her hand begins to tremble from the strain. Which doesn’t take as long as she’d like.

Yeah. Very soon, there won’t be a whole lot of things that will affect her. She might as well make the most of the time she's got. At least this way she can ensure that Pycelle doesn’t pose a threat to Joffrey and her sisters.

Decision made, Elyanna carefully slides out of bed. It’s a good thing she’d been able to eat dinner in her rooms today, what with Mother and Father having another escalated fight during lunch. Plus, it’s more than late enough for the ever so diligent Pycelle to have abandoned his chambers for the sort of pleasures his maester’s chain proclaims he’s sworn to forsake.

Yuck.

One hand pressed against the wall to keep her balance, Elyanna crosses the room with slow, but steady steps. Granted, her guards used to make things tricky once her health declined too far to risk sneaking out through the window, but as luck would have it, Father’s been in such a mood because of Mother’s insults, he’s actually ordered Ser Jaime to serve as his guard tonight.

[Elyanna doesn’t understand how, exactly, this is a punishment for her Mother, what with Father being unaware of the affair between them, but judging by the way Mother had pursed her lips and Ser Jaime had grimaced before he’d hidden it, it’s an effective one. It certainly made Mother so angry, she hadn’t thought to organize a replacement.

Not that Elyanna has reminded her.]

In other words, there is no one around to gently accompany Elyanna back into her room — or worse, tell Mother. That’s where the smooth part of her plan ends though. The corridors are largely empty, but Elyanna’s somehow managed to forget how endlessly long they are. She’s already sweating like a pig and feeling dangerously light-headed, and she hasn’t even reached Pycelle’s room yet.

Then, there’s the servant boy who appears out of thin air — by which Elyanna means she walks straight into him and it’s only due to his quick reflexes and superior upper body strength that they both stay upright. That definitely throws a wench into her plan.

"M’lady? Are you alright?" a familiar voice squeaks, causing Elyanna’s eyes to snap open — and when did she decide to close them?

"Mern?"

Elyanna stares at the grown up version of the kitchen boy who used to hide her and Joffrey when they were on the run from Sister Barba and snuck them sweets when the cooks weren’t watching.

[There’s advantages to befriending every servant in this keep, but Elyanna’s always thought that there’s a special sort of wisdom in staying on the good side of the people handling your meals.]

Recovering from her initial surprise, Elyanna begins to smile. Mern, who clearly remembers her as well as she remembers him, eyes her warily. He’s always been the cautious sort. Not a bad attitude to have, when being lowborn and dealing with energetic highborn. That hasn’t stopped him from lying to the gold cloaks to cover for her before though.

"Mern." Elyanna’s smile widens. "Just the person I was looking for."

*

With Mern’s help, Elyanna reaches Pycelle’s quarters without any further unpleasant surprises. Sure, she also has to fend off quite a few _Are you sure we shouldn’t find a Kingsguard_ and _Why do you want to sneak in the Grand Maester’s chambers_, but dealing with people entirely too reasonable to deserve the Red Keep always comes at a cost. Such is life.

As predicted, Pycelle’s room is empty and as sparsely decorated as the last time Elyanna visited it. This time, she has the advantage of not having to stay undetected though. With that in mind, Elyanna goes straight for the desk — and sinks into the not particularly comfortable chair in front of it.

[Even with Mern acting as a crutch, her legs are only going to hold her up for so long.]

"What are you looking for?" Mern asks as Elyanna pulls open the closest drawer.

As much of a mess as the desk appears to be, the paper in Pycelle’s drawers is carefully sorted and labelled. Elyanna takes a few moments to familiarize herself with the system and only has to reprimand Mern twice for almost spilling wax all over a parchment. Most of it, she would love to look at in detail, but there’s really only one section that draws her immediate interests. Health records.

"A’right you smarmy bastard, let’s see how much you know," she murmurs and flips through the parchment. There’s records for every person Pycelle has ever treated, so it’s a damn good thing he’s ordered them by name, not date. And alphabetically at that. Really, it’s like he’s trying to make this as easy as possible for her.

Even more interesting, unlike his predecessor, Pycelle hasn’t just kept notes of his own observations, he’s also included copies of letters he must have sent the Citadel about Elyanna’s conditions. Upon that discovery, Elyanna switches from skimming entries to reading the much more interesting correspondence. The first few letters mostly describe her general health issues, as well as information he must have gleaned from Mother in an attempt to gain a more accurate overall picture. However, it appears that unlike what Pycelle has told the court for years, he’s narrowed in on a suspected cause very early on in his employment.

—_the symptoms are unlike any poison I have ever seen, studied or heard of_—

—_its nefarious effects appear to be slow, almost sluggish, in ways even Manticore venom couldn’t achieve, leading me to believe the culprit seeks to mimic a natural death_—

_—is perhaps, much as it disheartens me to admit, the perfect murder, for there continues to be no evidence of foul play to be found—_

—_am no closer at discovering the source than I was at the beginning, though I do continue to hold with my initial suspicion of a man-made cause. Best as I can explain the observed results, the princess appears to develop a resistance to the poison, leading to a constant increase of its dose and potency. It would be nigh impossible for such a process to occur without a rational mind guiding it—_

If that isn’t interesting enough, the responses Pycelle’s suspicions have received from Grand Maester Sayn are telling in their own right.

—_have sought advice from Maester Redwyne, whose unorthodox theories and research methodology has proven helpful in the past. He has been hesitant to share his suspicions at first and upon hearing it, I cannot help but agree. I dare not put more into this letter, save for that he has drawn startling parallels with the developments largely described by Grand Maester Munkun.I would ask you to remember our most fierce argument to date and reconsider your position in light of your recent findings_—

—_cannot interfere_—

—_may be best to let nature come to its inevitable conclusion, as it has already done over a century and a half ago_—

Elyanna stares at the parchments in her clenched hands until the letters swim in front of her eyes. True, there is no clear diagnosis and nowhere is there talk of a cure but. This is the most she has ever heard about her condition. This is more than the people in charge of healing her have ever known. This. This is _treason_. More importantly, it’s murder. Her murder that these old geezers are rambling about. Pages upon pages of discussing her _decay_ and their entire conclusion can be summed up with _best to let her die off quietly_?!

[How many people have told her over and over again that she’s always been a sickly child? That her birth was a hard one, her survival nothing short of a miracle? How many of them have insisted that it’s no wonder she’s so much weaker and less active than Joffrey? How many have told her that her body had never been quite ready to live, that it’s really not surprising that it’s failing her now?

When has she started believing them?]

"M’lady?" Mern sounds uncharacteristically impatient. It’s probably not the first time he’s tried to draw her attention then. "We should really go."

Elyanna slowly releases the air between her teeth with a hissing sound. If only she could get rid off her pent-up rage as easily.

"You’re right."

With that, she throws the parchments carelessly on the ground.

"M’lady!" Mern exclaims, already crouching down to pick them up.

"Leave them."

"But— Shouldn’t we put everything back where it was so the Grand Maester doesn’t know we were here?"

"I _want_ him to know we were here," Elyanna growls. Forcefully pushes her anger down and reminds herself to think logically. "I simply don’t want him to know what, exactly, we were looking for."

And with that she reaches towards another stack of carefully ordered parchments and throws them over her shoulders. And other. And the next. She pulls open the drawers and empties them, even makes Mern pull off the thin mattress from the bed and turn it around.

"The more chaos there is, the less they know about what we were looking for. Or if we found it," she explains when Mern looks at her like she lost her mind.

"Did we find it?" Mern asks

"I’m not su—"

It’s when Elyanna rises up from her chair that she hears it. Actually, it’s more like she feels it. The slightest impression of something. With one hand clenched tightly around the surface of the desk, she lowers herself onto the floor next to the chair. Roughly pushes a few papers aside and reaches underneath the chair. There’s nothing stuck to its underside, but when she trails her fingers along the seams, there’s a small part, just wide enough for her hand to slip in, where the seams have been cut.

"M’lady, what?" Mern’s hands are on her shoulders, steading her as Elyanna stares down at the notes Pycelle has so cleverly hidden when all this other incriminating stuff is left in plain view of everyone who cares to enter.

It only takes a few seconds for Elyanna to realize what she’s looking at — she’s been staring at enough medical records in Pycelle’s surprisingly neat handwriting, thank you very much. It’s birthing records, not of the Royal family, but a variety of other names, some familiar, others not at all.

It takes a whole lot longer for Elyanna to _understand_ what it is she’s looking at.

This— Whatever else Pycelle’s been getting up to, whatever blame may be laid on his shoulders for her failing health, this is his true crime. This isn’t just murder, it’s not even treason. This is so much more valuable. It’s proof of a conspiracy that could make or break Pycelle — and his whole cursed Order with him.

"Elyanna, are you alright?"

Mern’s concerned eyes swim back into focus in front of her and Elyanna tries for a smile.

"We did. We found it," she croaks. Wishes the world would stop spinning around her already.

"Mern?" She doesn’t feel his grip on her shoulders anymore, but for once Elyanna is fairly sure it’s got more to do with the shock than anything else. This. This is so much more than she thought, goes so much deeper than she’d imagined. Poison indeed.

When Elyanna speaks again, it’s through lips so numb, it might have been someone else for all the awareness she puts into it. "Take me to my father. Now."

*

There’s a moment, at some point during the walk to father’s chambers, where it occurs to Elyanna that Mern may be a spy. With all the powerful puppet masters the Iron Throne attracts, you’d be hard-pressed to find a single person in the Red Keep who doesn’t owe an alliance to someone. It’s an abstract consideration that Elyanna dismisses almost immediately — for if Mern serves the wrong person, it’s already far too late and she’s in no state to stop him — despite the sure steps with which he moves her through the hallways and disappears in the shadows whenever a guard walks by.

By the end of it, he’s carrying Elyanna piggyback and she’s lost all sense of orientation or time. Nevertheless, they make it to Father’s chambers safe and unseen and Elyanna squeezes Mern’s hands when he lowers her back to the ground.

"Thank you, Mern."

"Of course, m’lady." He smiles gently at her, brushes back her sweaty hair where it sticks to her forehead. "I’m glad to be of service to you."

Elyanna knocks as hard as she can, but doesn’t wait for Father to respond. There’s nothing he could be doing that trumps what she has to say — after all, even if he’s got company, it sure as hell won’t be her mother after today’s fight — and this is more important than Elyanna’s delicate sensibilities.

It’s only when Elyanna has already pulled the doors wide open, has already taken her first step into the room, that she wonders about the lack of guards at her father’s door. Only when she meets the horrified gaze of her uncle that she remembers Father had ordered Ser Jaime to guard him tonight.

But even if she had thought of it, none of that would explain why her _brother_ is standing in the middle of her father’s chambers. Upon her loud entrance, Joffrey has whirled around like he’s going to lash out, face white as snow and eyes hollow.

"Joffrey? What are you doing here?" Elyanna asks reflexively.

"El—"

That’s when Mern, still faithfully serving as her crutch, goes tense as a bowstring by her side. And really, Elyanna must be in a far worse state than she thought. There’s simply no other explanation for how she could have missed the body. Or the sword in Ser Jaime’s hand left hand, dripping blood on the outrageously expensive carpet.

"He knew," Ser Jaime — her uncle, her sworn sword, the Kingslayer — whispers, voice cracking, when Elyanna meets his glazed eyes once more. "He _knew_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may now understand why I almost deviated from my usual chapter summary and called this **_The one in which everything shatters_**. [Yes, I am indeed that dramatic.]  
I apologize for the second cliffhanger, but this chapter was already long enough as it is, I really couldn't add the aftermath in as well.  
The Cersei&Elyanna interactions were also tricky because I really couldn't spend the entire chapter debating the merits of incest in favor of plot, but I also wanted to give the revelation some of the attention it deserved, have Elyanna react half-way realistically and still do the relationship between her and Cersei justice. So, tricky. And we finally got the Joffrey&Elyanna reconciliation, as a bit of fluff sprinkled in :) As for Robert, I did mention that this isn't a Fix-Everything-And-Make-It-All-Better kinda fic, right?  
To be honest, I can't believe I'm writing a GoT fic and it took me _18 chapters_ to kill off my first secondary character... [I also can't believe I wrote and posted 18 chapters in under half a year, but that's another story altogether.] Anyways. Please drop me a comment with your thoughts and impressions if you've got the time!  
Thank you for reading & have a great day!


	19. part xix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The price of life is death, m’lady."

_295 AC_

Elyanna would like to say that, all things considered, she handled the situation fairly well. Mature and logical, as is befitting of her age, station and training.

[She would like to say that the sight of her _dead father lying there in a pool of his own blood_ made her throw all of Sister Barba’s precious lessons — all her thoughts and plans — out of the window. That she sank down by his side, took Father’s hand into her own, felt his skin grow cold beneath her touch. She would like to say she cried.]

The truth is, for one eternal moment, Elyanna does nothing at all. Doesn’t think, doesn’t understand, just _doesn’t_. Then she sags. Mern sways — perhaps under the additional weight, perhaps under the stress of the whole situation — but he manages to keep them both on their feet. Has the presence of mind to gently lower her onto the ground.

"Elyanna—"

It might have been Joffrey, it might have been Ser Jaime. Elyanna honestly wouldn’t have been able to tell if anyone asked her. Not that it matters, she’s not listening. She’s too busy staring at the hem of her dress, which is touching the ground too close to her father’s body. Watch it slowly soak up the blood.

Mern steps away from her, not that his movement registers as more than an absently filed notion in the back of her mind. Mostly due to the absence of warmth. But this is a coldness that goes deeper, reaches right into the core of herself. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that it’s really got nothing to do with Mern.

Then Joffrey is kneeling by her side, one arm slung around her chest to hold her up. He’s not talking— or if he is, Elyanna hears none of it. His grip around her is tight enough to bruise and when Elyanna draws in a deep, forceful breath, she can smell him. The scented oils Mother gifted him on his last name day that he’s used religiously every day since she told him how good they smelled, the leather of his favored clothes that are almost as suited for studying as they are for fighting, and something uniquely Joffrey that she’s been associating with her brother since he stopped smelling like _baby_.

[She can smell the rusted, salty smell of blood hanging heavy in the air as well, and that’s probably her imagination talking, but that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow— nope, not thinking about it.]

"He attacked me."

As though in trance, Elyanna turns her head and finds Joffrey’s gaze fixed on her father’s body. His face is blank, a code she cannot decipher. Doesn’t want to, maybe.

"I though— He was so _mad_." Joffrey’s voice breaks and it’s not alone.

The sound of his heartbreak reverberates through Elyanna, leads her straight back to the beginning. Back to a wall she began to build in the depths of her mind before she was old enough to understand the difference between _process_ and _lock up and throw the key away_. [She might not be there yet either, but that’s not the point.] A dam that she created herself because she didn’t know better — because she was desperately trying not to drown, to carve herself out of the chunks of a ruined life, a broken spirit, a shattered soul — and has grown so used to in time, she’s forgotten it exists in the first place.

She _had_ forgotten. Until Joffrey sits there, pressed to her side as though he’s trying to sneak himself into her skin, shaking hard enough rattle her bones.

[There’s Father, too, but she _can’t_—]

A very, very soft _crack_ that echoes through Elyanna’s mind, drowns out her pounding heart, even the blood rushing in her ears. It’s not so much a gaping hole in her chest as it is a hairline fracture running through the foundation of a wall so old, even she has forgotten what it’s supposed to do. And like a large glass window, the fractures, too small to be perceived by the naked eye, spread out and out from their center point. A spiderweb of tears and fractures compromising its structural integrity.

When she closes her eyes, Elyanna can see it. Watch the inevitable unfold as the cracks continue to grow, increase in size and depth at dizzying speeds and even if she wanted to stop it, to fix it, to hold it all together, she wouldn’t even know where to start. This isn’t some cut you can cover with a plaster and wait for the skin to knit itself back together. It’s the kind of snowball that starts an avalanche and for all that Elyanna wants to flinch back, to avert her eyes, she can’t. She stares, fascinated and disturbed and terrified. Barely dares to breathe because— Because.

_It’s not gonna hold_. _It’s gonna fall_.

It does.

There’s no thunder, no screams, no flood. Not even pain. It’s almost anticlimactic. Elyanna— isn’t sure how to feel about that. Isn’t sure why the wall was there in the first place. Why she kept it up faithfully all these years. Why all it took was half a sentence from her brother to bring it all tumbling down.

[But that’s a lie, isn’t it.]

In fact, if Elyanna hadn’t instinctively known that the wall was there, felt the absence where its solid presence used to be, she wouldn’t have noticed the difference. She certainly doesn’t feel any different for it.

_Although it’s nicer to think about than the fact that my father went after my brother and my uncle killed him for it_, she thinks and feels her lips twist at the bitter irony of it all. _Family. What can you do?_

"Elyanna?" It’s the tone of voice and the fact that it’s Joffrey who’s speaking that has Elyanna snap to attention instantly. The same tone he used when he broke mother’s favorite painting, when he was afraid of letting down father, when he was scared of the dark. The terrified look in his green eyes — a mirror of her own — only solidifies the impression. "What are we gonna _do_?!"

Elyanna stares down at the blood soaking her dress. Looks back up into her brother’s eyes glazed eyes. Very consciously doesn’t look at Ser Jaime or the sword in his hand.

This is a disaster. They have to get this situation under control immediately if there’s any way her family — the people she cares about the most when it comes down to it, or what’s left of them at least — is going to make it through this mostly unscratched. And alive. That part’s the most important. And the toughest.

This. This is going to be a problem. This is going to ruin _everything_. Involuntary, Elyanna clenches her hands into fists, which is when she realizes she still hasn’t let go of the papers she found in Pycelle’s chambers.

_Another problem that can’t wait but will have to. How is this my life? What the fuck happened?_

It’s too much. There’s no way to keep this contained. Her fath— the bloody _king_ is _dead_. The repercussions from that alone… And Ser Jaime? He’s the fucking Kingslayer. Last time, there was a war with multiple sides to justify his actions, but this time? And the maesters really can’t wait. The longer she leaves them alone, the more people will pay the price. She’d be enabling them or at the very least_ let them continue_. And none of that touches on the fact that she’s still fucking dying and doesn’t know who’s responsible and it’s just—

"Fuck." Elyanna closes her eyes, feels the paper crunch in her hands. Joffrey a grounding presence by her side. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_!"

She doesn’t have time for grief and she sure as hell doesn’t have time for panic. They need to move _right the fuck now_ or they don’t even have to bother. Which is easier said then done when you can’t figure out how to pull the air back into your body, how to make her lungs hold on to that fucking oxygen.

She can’t do this. The realization is like a punch to the gut. Like having all the air driven out of you at once. Like feeling your ribs crack under a pressure you can’t escape from and you know it’s gonna crush you completely and you’re still not moving. Ser Jaime is in shock, Joffrey is out of it, and Elyanna is fucking _useless_.

She’s gonna have to watch her family be torn apart because she can’t focus for a bloody minute. She’s gonna—

Elyanna doesn’t think because she can’t. There’s no room to think. So she does the only thing she can do, the only thing that’s left to do — because she has to protect her family and she _will_, always, failure has never been an option. She reaches into the absence of _everything that is_ where there used to be a wall inside her mind and _pulls_.

There’s nothing there. Nothing happens. There’s—

Elyanna blinks. And the world _flips_.

[There’s no big change. No feeling like an entirely different person. It’s more like— staring at a red circle on a white paper for a very long time, blinking and looking at the white paper and seeing a green circle instead. A shift in perspective that doesn’t level the foundations of your worldview, just mutes the colors a little, let’s them appear in a slightly different shade. So similar to the original, you almost don’t notice the shift, even as you feel it settle into your bones.]

Elyanna _breathes_.

[_The mind is full of mysteries_, a young, female voice echoes through her from beyond the wall. Curious and eager, always eager to learn more. _Even fully trained occlumens only have a very basic understanding of it. Muggle and magical alike, there’s so much we still don’t know about how our brains work, so many ways in which human mind continues to surprise and astonish us_.]

What Elyanna sees in that moment isn’t her father’s body, features frozen in a mask of surprise. It’s not a bushy-haired girl with a book thick enough to break a grown man’s spine. It’s the table in her father’s council room that she and Joffrey used to sneak into when they were much, much younger. The figurines of lions and stags and wolves that they used to play with, push back and forth on the map, topple off hills and castles.

"_When people cling to what they know, stick to the plan even though everything has already fallen apart because it’s what they know, what they’re comfortable with, that’s when they become predictable. That’s when they lose,_" a red-haired man with a grim face murmurs to her left.

"_Only one can stay_," a crippled boy with a dirty cloth wrapped around his head whispers to her right.

And from behind her, in the voice of all those who came before her; "_Leave_."

When Elyanna speaks her voice is steady and void of any emotional inflection, much like she herself feels. Like a thin window sheen has been pulled down and locked, enabling her to gaze freely upon her churning emotions from a safe distance.

"Pack your things, Ser Jaime. You’re leaving the city before daylight dawns."

That, at least, finally seems to get through to her uncle because his head snaps around from where he’s been staring at the bloody sword like he’s never seen it before.

"What?!"

"You heard me."

If the circumstances were slightly different — if there wasn’t a nebulous fog slowly encroaching upon Elyanna’s whirlwind of internal emotions that has her unsure whether she will ever find them again once she looses sight of them for good, yet lets it happen anyways because she can’t afford the distraction — she would’ve been amused by the indignation rippling across Ser Jaime’s features before they are drawn into a stubborn expression so achingly similar to Joffrey’s own when he’s about to dig his heels in.

"I’m not running."

Elyanna turns, looks into those green eyes so much like her mother’s. She can see the fear in them warring with determination, and she wants to feel bad for him, wants to comfort and explain, but this is not the time.

"Excuse me?!"

"You heard me," Ser Jaime echoes her words back at her with a mocking twist of his lips. Straightens his shoulders. "I’m not running."

_Yeah, how about no_.

"What do you think is going to happen?" she asks despite herself. "You know we can’t cover this up. You know you’ll have to answer for _murdering the king_. You’ll be beheaded and that’s only if the judges are feeling graceful and _Joffrey_ as the heir to the throne will have to _pass the sentence_." She meets his eyes evenly, unyielding. "Do you want to do that to him?" _Your son?_ "Do you want to do that to _mother_?"

Ser Jaime visibly falters at that, though not enough if the set of his jaw is any indication. He swallows but there’s still too much conviction ringing in his words when he continues. "What are they gonna do, call me a _Kingslayer_?" His laugh drips with bitterness. "They’ve been doing that for years already. It’s time I stand before the Gods, let them decide my fate. I’m not running away from this again."

Elyanna feels cold and burning with rage at the same time when the realization sinks in.

["_Of course you have a death wish_." Luna chuckles. "_I’ve yet to meet a warrior who doesn’t have one_."]

"And what good are you to anyone dead?" she bites out before the fog inside her smothers her fury in bottomless darkness, cools her down fast enough to give her whiplash. "What will you have accomplished, except break mother’s heart and have me and Joffrey grieve yet another father?"

Elyanna can see the way her uncle winces, the way those too-sharp words hit their mark. _Good_. _They’re supposed to_. "No," she continues, cool and uncompromising. "You’re leaving King’s Landing tonight."

"And how exactly are you going to make me?" Ser Jaime sneers, with that same challenging viciousness some of the less favored court members have received upon calling him a kingslayer one too many times. Elyanna doesn’t let it faze her. She couldn’t if she wanted to.

"You swore an oath to protect me, Ser Jaime," she says. "You’re not gonna do that dead and you’re sure as hell not doing it here in King’s Landing. So now you get to decide what it is your word is truly worth. Because if it means anything, anything at all to you, you’ll leave the city tonight."

Elyanna squares her shoulders, not with nerves but with anticipation. "And you won’t be going alone."

*

"Mern!" Elyanna calls out to the kitchen boy her uncle is more or less dragging towards the door. He’s still an unhealthy shade of pale but he doesn’t look like he’s gonna throw up any second now, which is a big improvement.

He turns towards her immediately, dark eyes wide but focused. Mern’s taken too many risks she hasn’t truly earned for her tonight and this is hardly the right way of thanking him, but none of them can risk him getting cold feet. Not until King’s Landing is a far-away shadow behind Ser Jaime. She hopes he understands that, but it doesn’t mean she owes him any less. They all do.

"_Thank you_." She means it, really, she does.

To her honest surprise, Mern smiles. "It was my pleasure, m’lady."

The door falls shut behind him before she can think of how to react to that."

*

"You can’t leave!" Joffrey exclaims the very moment Ser Jaime and Mern have disappeared through the door.

Which is not an unexpected response. If anything, it’s a miracle her brother has held it together until now. In a show of self-restraint, Elyanna resists the temptation to pinch her nose. Instead she turns around and takes a hold of her brother’s shoulders. Feels him trembling through her touch. Gods, this is not how she wanted this conversation to go.

"Joffrey. Hey, Joff, look at me."

His breathing is too fast and shallow, his pupils are unfocused and if she doesn’t calm him down in the next few minutes, she’s gonna have to log his unconscious body around. Wonderful.

"Joffrey!" she snaps, tightens her grip until her fingernails dig painfully into his shoulders. It seems to help a little bit. At least now he’s actually looking at her. "I need you to calm down and listen to me now okay? I know it’s scary, but we don’t have a lot of time."

Elyanna takes another calming breath. This isn’t at all how she pictured this moment. But it is what it is. What did Mother tell her once? _What kind of world would we live in, if everyone were to receive exactly what they deserve?_

"Father is dead, Joffrey. You’re his heir. The realm needs a king, right now more so than ever. It needs stability. You need to step up and take the Iron Throne. You always knew you would, little brother." And damn it if she doesn’t sound choked up.

"I’m not his heir, you know that!" Joffrey hisses, half-hysterical. "I’m a bloody bastard, I can’t take the throne! It’s not mine, if anything it’s yours!"

"No! No, listen to me, Joff." Elyanna shakes her head hard enough to dislodge a few strands of hair from her braid. "I never wanted the throne, not at your expense. Besides you’ve been preparing for this day all your life. These may not be the circumstances we expected, it may be a bit earlier than it should’ve been, but if anyone can do this it’s you. You’re ready, Joff. You’re never going to be more ready because you _have_ to be. There’s no one else but you."

"You—"

"I can’t stay," she cuts straight through the chase. "Joffrey, I’m not sick. I’m being poisoned."

"_What_?!"

"It’s true. Pycelle knows, I found proof in his notes. But, Joff, no, pay attention! It wasn’t Pycelle. He doesn’t seem to know who it is, he just figured he’d let me die off because no one would notice foul play. Joffrey, aside from you, Mother and Ser Jaime, there’s no one in this keep I can trust right now. I need to go or I’m gonna be dead within the year. I need time to figure out who is behind this and I won’t be getting it here."

Elyanna closes her eyes. Opens them again. Joffrey’s staring at her with an almost feverish expression now and she’s still got more to tell him.

"That’s not all of it. I’ve found evidence of— here." She pushes the notes into his hands. "Take them. Hide them somewhere not even Littlefingers or Varys would find them. It’s all the proof you need to sentence Pycelle — and any other maester you have access to — to death, should you need to."

"I don’t—" Joffrey stares at the parchment. "What is this? What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Nothing. I’m going to handle this. Joff, I need to get to the bottom of this and I will. Until I’m back, don’t do anything with this information unless you have no other choice. Then use it however you see fit."

Elyanna’s hands close around her brother’s shaking ones, squeeze them gently. She tries for a smile even though there’s no joy she’s feeling right now.

"When you’ll be back?" Joffrey wets his lips. "So you will be back?"

"Of course! I just need to figure out how to heal myself or maybe recover, if being away from the culprit is all it takes. As soon as I’m strong enough, as soon as I have the answers I need, I will be back. And if you truly need me, call for me and I will come. No matter what."

"Promise?" Gods, he’s so _young_.

"I swear it, Joffrey. By the Old Gods and the New," Elyanna murmurs and pulls him into a hug. "By your side or not, you won’t be alone. You have mother and the Hound. You’ll be a great king. You couldn’t be anything else if you tried. Fuck, I’m so proud of you, little brother."

"Ladies don’t cuss," Joffrey mutters into her shoulder and if she can hear the tears in his voice, Elyanna doesn’t say a thing. All she does is hold him a little tighter and pray to every God she can think of that they’ll watch out for her brother.

"Alright." Joffrey swallows hard enough that she can feel it. "Alright."

Slowly he frees himself from her grasp and takes a step back. Wipes his eyes in harsh, jerky motions. "You should go." He grins weakly, like his voice hasn’t cracked on the last syllable. "Take care of yourself, El. And of Uncle Jaime too. And come back to me, okay?"

"_Always_." It’s nothing but a whisper, but it feels like so much more.

With a heavy heart and a hell of a lot of pissed-off determination, Elyanna turns and walks to the door.

"El? Where will you go?" Joffrey asks as she reaches for the doorknob.

Elyanna looks at him over her shoulder, standing in this terrible, terrible room that will soon become his, clothes pristine and eyes glittering with tears.

"To Oldtown." The smile on her lips transforms into something more honest. Something more wicked. "Where the Citadel has its stronghold. If I find answers anywhere, it will be there. And make no mistake, I _will_ find them."

"Of course you will," Joffrey says, without the shadow of a doubt .

Elyanna rushes out of the door before she can give in to the urge to cry. Pulls the cool fog closer, wraps herself up in it, until it’s all she can feel and her fingertips tingle with numbness.

_Not the time_.

*

Elyanna barely remembers anything from the walk back to her chambers. There’s no exhaustion or pain to drag her down and hold her back. No excitement either. She is a ghost walking through familiar hallways, unheard, unseen. Uncaring.

As soon as she reaches her chambers, Elyanna slips out of her nightclothes and into her favorite Ella-appropriate dress — it’s not like she can be Princess Elyanna Baratheon once they leave the Red Keep behind. She grabs her satchel and works quickly through her belongings. It’s a balancing act between what she doesn’t want to part from and what’s sure to draw attention if she takes it with her.

There’s the dagger her father gave her that she’s taking with her no matter what. And the golden necklace with the little lion-shaped charm her mother gave her on her thirteenth nameday. The hairpins with the hidden blades — another of Mother’s ever practical presents — and the dagger from underneath her pillow from Ser Jaime also go into the bag. More than anything, Elyanna wants to take the bow with her that Joffrey had secretly made for her a few years ago. Back when she was still strong enough to use it. But for all its sentimental value, even if she could use it, she has long outgrown it. 

No. In this, practicality matters more than emotional attachment. Decision made, Elyanna pulls a small sack of coins from her nightstand. They’ll need money and won’t be able to rely on the Lannister name if they want to make it farther than a day’s ride out of King’s Landing. A few sheets of paper and two dresses are all she can fit into her bag. It will have to be enough.

There’s nothing in particular that tips Elyanna off. No sound, no suspicious footsteps, no absence of sound either. It’s an instinct honed over a lifetime of war that trickles down her back, so sudden, Elyanna tenses against her will. And it’s sheer luck that has her twist around immediately in response to whatever it is that set her instincts off.

A choked gasp that isn’t quite a muffled scream leaves her lips without permission, even before the tearing sensation in her left side registers. On reflex, Elyanna presses her hands against her side, feels warm blood pour over her fingers where her dress has been torn by a knife — a dagger, and really, this is already the second blade dripping with blood too many she sees today — even as she looks up at the face of her assailant. Draws in a stuttered breath of surprise when she recognizes him.

"Eon?!"

Gratifyingly, he looks just as surprised as she is. Apparently, she’s finally managed to catch him off his guard. If only he hadn’t done the very same thing by stabbing her, this could’ve actually lightened her mood just a little.

"Forgive me, m’lady." He bows his head, the first true sign of respect he’s ever shown her.

"What are you…? Why…?!" Elyanna stares at the bloody dagger, Eon’s unnaturally wide eyes.

[It’s the first time she’s ever seen him without the cloth and with his eyes open. They don’t have the same milky look she knows from other blind people, but she understands why he hides them from sight nonetheless. They’re black. Pure, unbroken black. As though his pupils have grown so huge, they’ve swallowed the color of his eyes up, left no room for anything else.]

She doesn’t understand. There’s already been too many shocks today, she doesn’t have the mental capacity to process this one on top of everything else.

"The price of Life is Death, m’lady," Eon murmurs as she stumbles. Feels her knees give out underneath her. He catches her — must have because the next thing Elyanna becomes aware of is the hard, cool stone pressed against her cheeks. The heaviness of her arm when she tries to slap Eon’s hand away as he brushes strands of hair out of her face.

She smacks her lips, once, twice, before she manages to force her tongue into compliance. "Valar morghulis_._"

Eon’s chuckle brushes against her cheek, a sharp breath that holds no joy or amusement.

"Valar dohaeris."

Elyanna blinks her eyes open once more. It takes far more effort than it should. Licks her lips. The pain is already fading, barely noticeable beneath the fog. The deep sense of betrayal tastes more bitter and reaches deeper, but that too dissipates into nothingness eventually. It’s her stubbornness that she clings to instead, her determination to see this through.

"I am no man, Eon," she rasps. It’s a threat and a warning and a plea.

[It’s not an absolution.]

"No, m’lady." A fleeting pressure of dry lips against her forehead. "Indeed you are not."

*

The first time Mern lied to a Kingsguard’s face, he was ten years old and the Kingsguard in question was the one currently dragging him through the hallways of the Red Keep, towards the one place no servant likes to see from up close: The dungeons.

[The first time Mern told Littlefinger the names of the King’s more elusive guests, he was eight. The first time he told Varys the name of the King’s favored whore of the month, he was also eight. The first time he told Jon Arryn about one of Littlefinger’s bloodier dealings, he was eight as well.

This is the single truth about the Red Keep: Everyone, from the lowest dungeon to the highest watchtower sings and everybody whispers. It’s who can afford the most expensive songs that differs and shifts all the time. But while the lords and ladies fall out of favor and change, the servants remain. Bow your head deep enough and nobody even remembers your name. Remembers whom you used to serve, whom you might serve now.

It’s said that the nobles play their games while the people just hanker down and go about their lives. What the wise men telling you these simple truths forget is this: Life is a game, no matter your station, and nowhere is this more true than in King’s Landing.]

Everyone knows this is how things work and even if they don’t like it, they still play along because they’re too afraid to be left out. To afraid to lose through lack of participation alone. That’s how it works.

It never quite worked that way with the prince and the princess though. Not for as long as Mern remembers — and he has a very good memory.

[He’s seven and barely old enough to heat the oven when he first runs into the prince. "Have you seen my sister?" the little boy demands.

"No, m’lord," Mern says.

"Oh. Too bad," the prince says, shrugs and walks away. He runs through the kitchen door a couple of minutes later, out of breath and startles Mern so bad, he almost drops the water jar.

"I forgot to say thank you," the prince informs him. "Thank you. Don’t tell Elyanna I forgot."

And he’s gone.]

[He meets the princess a few minutes later, trying to sneak through the kitchen and utterly failing to not stand out.

"Can I help you, m’lady?" Mern asks because one of the other kitchen boys dares him to.

"It’s 'may' not 'can'," the little girl says. "May I help you. At least that’s what Sister Barba says. But I think that’s just stupid, yours sounds way better. What’s your name?"]

"I’m no expert on this," Ser Jaime Lannister grumbles as he pulls him along. "But considering we’re about to get hanged for treason if we’re caught, I don’t think this is the right time to be smiling."

Taking stock of his facial muscles, Mern notes that he is indeed smiling. "I’d imagine you’re more of an authority on treason than most living men," he says because sometimes he forgets that Elyanna and her brother are the exception and not the rule. "Ser."

The Kingslayer — double now, Mern wonders if that will change his title or simply increase his infamy — grits his teeth audibly, before he barks a laugh. "I get it now."

"Get what, Ser?"

"Nothing. And stop it with the 'Ser' crap. I think we both know that won’t last much longer."

Moving through the Red Keep with Ser Jaime Lannister, it’s obvious how well the Kingsguard knows this place. They take a couple of shortcuts even Mern hadn’t known existed and only almost run into a patrol twice. Ser Jaime doesn’t just know the keep, he knows the guard schedules and placements and even their habits. It’s how they make it into the lower level, down to the cells unseen.

Ser Jaime leads them into a guards’ room filled with clothes and the odd weapon. It’s abandoned, like he’d been sure it would be. Mern wonders suddenly, if the Kingslayer would’ve wanted to kill more than just the king, could anyone have stopped him? Would anyone?

He watches the man strip with quick, practical motions. "Should’ve done this a long time ago," he mumbles when he throws the white Kingsguard cloak onto the floor and kicks it for good measure.

Mern averts his eyes.

It would be easy, he supposes, to drive a sword in the man’s back right now. Justified even. The queen might have him killed for it, but he’s also the Kingslayer for the second time, which might just be the only scenario in which Mern would have a small chance of getting away with it. Not that he’s seriously contemplating it. Mern’s never even held a sword in his hands, he’s not about to start now. Certainly not like this. Give him a frying pan and he might reconsider.

Alright, so he wouldn’t. Big surprise there.

"You still here?" Ser Jaime looks genuinely surprised. He doesn’t look as much like the Kingslayer, one of the infamous Lannisters, anymore. Not with his hair darkened by dirt and dressed in the shabby, fraying clothes of what must have been a very low-level guard. "Huh. Thought you’d have run for it by now."

Mern frowns. "Why would I run?"

The incredulous look he gets in return is startlingly reminiscent of Elyanna when she thinks he’s said or done something stupid and isn’t sure if telling him would hurt his feelings. "Boy, you’re about to release prisoners in the Red Keep. You could be put to death for that. And you’re taking that risk for what? To help let the traitor escape justice who murdered your king."

"And to help Elyanna and Joffrey," Mern adds because that’s an important distinction.

There’s delivering information to the various powerhouses in this keep that fancy themselves the rulers from the shadows and then there’s the two kids who spent many an afternoon with him in the kitchen, laughing and trading jokes and stories. Mern wishes it was more of a contest sometimes, but it’s really not.

"Ah." Ser Jaime snaps his fingers. "You in love with my niece?"

The question comes out of nowhere and leaves Mern reeling, all the more so because of how unbothered the Kingslayer sounds. Like he doesn’t much care one way or another. Which does not fit the way he’s looking at Mern in that moment _at all_.

"I— I don’t— I mean—"

There’s really no good way to answer such a question, as Mern learned a long time ago. The Seven know, the only boys Joffrey hates more than his sister’s admirers are the ones who are stupid enough _not_ to admire her.

Ser Jaime chuckles. "Calm down, boy. I’m not gonna kill you for wanting something you can’t have. Might want to watch out for Cersei though, she’s not quite as— tolerant, sometimes."

The smile drops from his face at the mention of the queen. Mern isn’t sure whether that’s a sign that he’s not joking or just realizing that he might not ever see his sister again. Either way, he sure as the Seven Hells isn’t going to ask.

"You sure about this?" Ser Jaime asks as he slides a dagger up his boot. "After this, there’s no going back."

Mern takes a deep breath. Thinks about bright green eyes — Everyone always says the royal siblings all have their mother’s eyes, safe for Princess Gwyneth, who shares her father’s bright blue, Lannister colors, but Mern’s never agreed with that. They all have a different shade, for all that they look similar enough when you aren’t paying attention. Mern always pays attention — that a mere smile can light up from the inside. Thinks about how pretty eyes are a stupid reason to get yourself killed and if his mother knew what he’s doing right about now, she’d cold-conk him with a pan.

"There wasn’t the moment I walked into the King’s room," he ends up replying because that’s a truth in its own way.

Ser Jaime rolls his eyes, but he doesn't sound upset when he speaks up. He sounds bitter. "To love and all the stupid shit men do for it."

He pushes the door open and that’s that.

*

Elyanna doesn’t know when Eon leaves. She doesn’t remember much about how she got up from the floor either. There must’ve been something on that dagger — another poison? How _ironic_ — because the cut isn’t that deep. She’s managed to bind it with parts of her blanket that she’s cut apart.

Not the cleanest work ever done, but the best she could do under the circumstances. There’s no one to call for help to. No one who wouldn’t raise an alarm — an attack on the princess cannot go unpunished — and there’s no point. Eon’s long gone. Elyanna doubts any of the gold cloaks would find him.

_Valar morghulis_ indeed.

But Elyanna meant what she said. She’s no man. The world hasn’t let her forget that since she’s been old enough to understand the differences between her and Joffrey’s treatment. And she hasn’t quite forgiven the world for that yet, but that’s not the point.

The point is, Elyanna has no idea how she’s walking — well, stumbling drunkenly, with at least one hand and sometimes her entire face pressed against a wall — through the keep or how no one’s found her — or the blood — yet. But she’s not questioning it because if she does, if she allows herself to think about this, she’ll stop moving.

And she won’t get up again a second time.

Somehow, and she’ll never be able to explain or replicate that feat, Elyanna makes it to the stables without being found out. Leans right against the outer wall and just breathes for several minutes to collect her strength.

[They don’t have time for medical attention or panic over her state. She’s gonna have to look a lot less dead than she feels in about fifteen seconds.]

Inside, Ser Jaime is already reading the horse. Just one, thank the Gods, Elyanna wouldn’t have made it out of the keep on horseback without support. Mern’s nowhere in sight, but Elyanna can’t blame him. Hopefully, he’ll stick to the plan. And if not, there should be enough chaos reigning in the Red Keep in a few moments that it won’t matter.

She hopes.

[She’s building a hell of a lot on hope and faith right now and that doesn’t sit well with her at all. But it is what it is.]

There’s footsteps approaching — running actually — and Elyanna has just enough time to get through half a heart attack and see Ser Jaime draw his sword before her brother steps into view, gasping for air and still running towards her.

"Thank the gods, you’re still here!" He’s hugging her, strong and warm and _fuckthishurts_. Elyanna bites her lip hard enough to taste blood, which is still better than screaming, so. She’s gonna count that one as a win.

"Joff?"

He pulls back at her weak response, worry written all over his face, but the impatient gesture from Ser Jaime seems to distract him. "Right, I wanted to give you this."

"He drops something small, cold and heavy in her hand. Metal. A ring. Frowning, Elyanna lifts her palm up to inspect it. The Baratheon sigil on it is very easily recognizable.

"This is… Joffrey, you can’t give me this."

"Of course I can!" Joffrey scoffs. "Father gave it to me on my thirteenth nameday. Said it was, you know." He shrugs. "Time 'cause I’m his son and heir and now I have the ring to prove it. Well." His lips twist, but he doesn’t waver. "I don’t need it anymore. I won’t be the king’s heir— you will."

Gently, Joffrey reaches out and covers her hand with his own. "I want you to have it, Elyanna, and no one else. You deserve it, more than I— more than anyone else does."

Elyanna swallows. This time though, there’s really no hopes of holding the tears back. She pulls her brother into another hug and fuck how it makes her side feel like it’s set aflame.

"Take care of yourself, Joff. Watch out for Myrcella and Gwyneth— and Mother, too." She steps back, but lingers, ignoring her uncle’s obvious impatience. "You’ll be the king now, Joff." She smiles through her tears. "Don’t fuck it up until I get back to clean up your mess, little brother."

Joffrey smiles back. "No promises."

That’s when Ser Jaime has enough and lifts Elyanna up into the saddle without further ado. If he and Joffrey exchange any words, she doesn’t hear them. The tight grip of her uncle has the world whiten out for a moment there, and Elyanna is trapped motionless under the cruciatus — at least that’s the closest she comes to describe it — as she tries to stay upright and not scream and not cry and not make it obvious that she’s bleeding again.

It’s only when Ser Jaime settles into the saddle behind her, a steady, warm presence, that Elyanna manages to refocus. Meet Joffrey’s gaze once more.

"You’ll be a great king, Joffrey," she whispers, more to herself than to him. "Be kind. Be brave. Be strong."

Then Joffrey’s pushing the stable door open and they’re moving.

*

By some miracle that most of the Gods’ must have had a hand in, nobody stops them. Elyanna blinks into the darkness as screams and shouts become audible behind them. But they’ve long left the keep, are almost at the city gates and then they pass those as well. Ser Jaime, tense as a bowstring but completely still, doesn’t spur the horse until they’re out of sight of the guards, further down the King’s Road, swallowed by shadows and fading moonlight.

The moment they pass those gates, Elyanna feels a tension ease inside her. Despite the aching pain in her side, it feels like this is the first fresh breath she’s taken all night. All her life really. And the further they ride from King’s Landing, the more that feeling intensifies.

Elyanna hasn’t left the city she’s been born in all her life. She knows it smells terrible, sure, but she’s never really realized how much. Not until she’s here, riding slowly through the woods. The air is heavy with wet leaves, earth and wood.

_This_, she thinks absently, _must be what freedom tastes like_.

The beauty of it, the relief, lures her into a restless doze for a while. She’s adrift in the world, aware but no true participant, as the horse’s strong muscles move beneath her and Ser Jaime skillfully compensates for her deadweight.

_Maybe. Maybe this is a dream. It certainly feels like one._

_Peck._

Elyanna jerks. Startles herself — and Ser Jaime — out of a comfortable state of absentminded thoughtlessness.

"Elyanna? Everything alright?"

"Fine."

She barely pays attention to him though. All her focus is directed inward. Where something— doesn’t feel quite right.

Elyanna swallows. Returns to the wall she’s torn down. But no, that’s not it. That wall, she’s been half-aware of her entire life. It’s one she built, subconsciously or not, and even though she knows tearing it down will come back to bite her in the ass, this feels different. This feels—

It’s not just a wall down there. If she goes deep enough, reaches further than she’s ever gone—

[She’s been afraid of this since she was a girl of six years old walking down into the darkness of the Red Keep’s dungeons, telling herself that there is nothing down there to be afraid of. Feeling that coldness of unbending iron bearing down on her, inside her, chaining her—

She never went back.]

It doesn’t feel quite like that anymore. It feels— hard to put into words. But there’s something off. Something that’s been knocked loose, out of balance. Elyanna presses a hand to her chest where she feels her heartbeat pounding away beneath her rips. And. And.

There’s— a flutter. Something soft and gentle and fast. Like a hummingbird, flapping his wings for the first time, slowly remembering their strength.

A hummingbird that’s been locked up in a cage for so long, it’s forgotten how it feels to fly. Except now the cage isn’t made of metal and steel and blood-coated iron anymore. It’s made of wood and the hummingbird isn’t just stretching its wings.

_Peck._

It’s picking at the wood. Weakening it. Fighting it. It— wants out?

Elyanna blinks. Comes back to herself in a disorienting shift, only to realize that Ser Jaime must have been asking her name for a while because he sounds like he’s rapidly approaching hysterical levels of worry.

"'m fine," she mumbles, although she’s not entirely sure that’s true.

The hummingbird trapped in her chest certainly doesn’t seem to think so.

_Peck. Peck. Peck._

"I think—" _I remember this feeling_, is what Elyanna wants to say when she feels a sudden rush of pure _warmthlovehappinesseagerfreeyes_ rush through her. The sensation is so intense, she feels her fingertips tingle with it several moments after it passes still.

Yes. She remembers this now. All too well.

[She’s spent the better part of ten years desperately trying to forget it.]

"Ser Jaime?" The words feel like stones rolling around in her mouth and refusing to come out in an orderly fashion.

"What? Elyanna, what’s going on?"

"I think—"

[His fingers close around it, a wooden stick like all the others, and he feels ridiculous waving it around, except this one is different. This time, there’s a rush of red sparkles and that’s nothing compared to the warmth that fills him, from his toes up to the tip of his hair and this, this is amazing, this is—]

_Peck. Peck. _ ** _Peck_**_._

The second rush is different. It’s still _warmcomfortfamiliarlove_, but it’s also a bit like an electric shock running through her entire body. Not painful, not even hurtful, but not comfortable either. It sparks, right down between her fingers and.

Elyanna’s crying. She definitely is. She hasn’t felt this happy, this wonderful, this free since— nothing comes to mind.

The horse almost throwing them off is a bit of a kick back to reality though.

"What the—"

Ser Jaime is a great rider, otherwise they would’ve already been thrown off. Still, Elyanna can’t keep this up. Whatever this is — and she doesn’t dare to think it, to name it, not even inside her mind because if she’s wrong about this it might actually kill her — it’s getting worse. Another shock runs through her, this one not as intense. But. The hummingbird isn’t calming. If anything, Elyanna can feel his wings flap against her sternum, harder and harder the more seconds pass.

_Calm_, she tries to think. _Stop. You need to stop_.

"We need to get off the King’s Road," she croaks out.

"What? Elyanna, we’re no more than a few miles out. They’ll catch us within days!"

"They’ll catch us even faster if we lie on the road with broken backs," Elyanna bites out behind gritted teeth. "The horse is gonna keep spooking. Ser Jaime, we need to get off the road now and I need to get off this horse."

"What—"

"There’s no time!" Elyanna screams over the endless _PeckPeckPeckPeckPeck_ echoing in her mind.

Her uncle curses, loud and creative, but he gets them off the road as fast as he can in the darkness. Which, unfortunately, is not very fast at all. Elyanna bites her tongue and tries to keep calm for as long as possible but all too soon — not long enough — she knows she’s done for. There’s no controlling this or keeping it contained any more than there is Father’s death and that’s a terribly bad thought if she wants to keep calm and—

"Stop!"

She’s gliding, stumbling, falling off the horse before Ser Jaime’s fully stopped. Ignores his cries as she stumbles further away from him. Trips over the thick roots, but crawls on. She doesn’t feel the pain in her side anymore, hasn’t in a while, and she can’t worry about that now. Because the shocks have stopped coming, gotten replaced by a near-constant warmth and the pecking sounds are deafening.

"Elyanna!"

"Stay back!" Elyanna shouts blindly in the direction of her uncle and crawls on. Her arms are trembling, she’s sweating terribly — it’s so hot — doesn’t even hear the sound of her own breath. Doesn’t feel the twigs dig into her palms, the spikes, thorns and rocks that tear her skin open.

_PeckPeckPeckPeckPeckPeckPeckPeck_ **_Peck—_ **

Her arms give out just as the wooden cage shatters and Elyanna doesn’t fall. Elyanna doesn’t do anything at all.

*

Jaime tries to keep track of his niece but with how dark the woods are, it’s harder than it seems. Luckily, she doesn’t make it very far. Unluckily, she doesn’t make it very far.

[His skin itches where her blood is drying and he can’t believe he _didn’t notice_.]

He never should’ve left King’s Landing. Jaime knows that, now more than ever. But the truth is, once Elyanna’s made up her mind, it’s almost impossible to convince her otherwise. The truth is, he’s not ready to die. Certainly not for a crime he can not, will not regret. He’ll face his verdict before the gods when the time comes and not a moment before.

Elyanna’s given him an excuse, like she always does, and being the weak man that he is, he’s run with it. Now Cersei’s firstborn is bleeding out in the woods too far away from her family or any useful help, possibly crazed by pain or fever and he can’t fucking do shit about it.

Then he has her in his sight again and Jaime hurries towards her, pulls the stubborn mount with him. He’s walking — afraid to accidentally trample her — which turns out to be a very good choice because when she calls out in warning, Jaime doesn’t even pause.

He probably should have.

What happens next will give Jaime nightmares for years to come. It starts with the way Elyanna falls forward, only to suddenly jerk back upright and further back, bending her back until he’s sure it must break, like some invisible enemy has grabbed her by the hair and pulled her back around. Her in the light of the early dawn, her face is cast in shadows but he can see the way her mouth is wide open in a silent scream, the way her entire body jerks and trembles like he’s seen dead bodies do sometimes when you’ve driven an axe deep into their spine.

There’s a pressure building in the air that makes the hair on the back of his neck and his arms stand up. It weighs down on him, makes it harder to breathe. The horse neighs nervously and Jaime’s grip on the reins tightens. Then, without any warning, the pressure just drops.

Explodes, actually. Which is a far more accurate description because what Jaime feels next is something passing through him — a bit like he’s been doused with cold water. It’s a gentle, if not entirely comfortable sensation that the horse clearly doesn’t appreciate.

When Jaime opens his eyes — when the hell did he even close them? — he can’t help but gape. Because he’s clearly and undeniably not going mad. Something just happened. Something that leveled all the trees around them to the fucking ground. Like an invisible force has ripped them all out and cast them away as useless. He — and his horse, which is still dancing nervously but at least hasn’t panicked, unlike Jaime, if he’s being honest — are the only things left standing in the near vicinity.

Perhaps even more terrifying is the sight in the center of the devastation, where Elyanna is lying slumped down on the ground. Motionless.

[If he cries when he feels the weak flutter of her heartbeat, there's no one around to witness it.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was one hell of a mess and I hope I didn't screw it up beyond recognition. [The mess mostly reflects the mental state of everyone involved in the chaos, so I feel like this gives me some creative liberty - yeah, I'm gonna run with that excuse.]
> 
> It made me so happy how many of you were worried about Mern tbh. He's a sweetheart and he deserves so much better, but this is GoT, so you were perfectly reasonable expecting his death. Truth be told, he's still not out of the woods. And if Elyanna hadn't been planning to leave with Jaime, they definitely would've had to kill him. As it is, it was a calculated gamble Elyanna decided to take for multiple reasons. 
> 
> Okay, I'm genuinely afraid to ask, but what are your thoughts on this? I know there was a lot going on, from the initial fallout of Robert's death to Eon's sudden appearance [let's be honest, if he's gonna decide to kill Elyanna after all, he's _obviously_ gonna do it at the worst possible moment] to the whole hummingbird bit that should make some of you who've been asking about this very happy. Three guesses what happened there at the end and everyone who guesses right gets to ask one plot-related question ;)
> 
> That said, WE'VE FINALLY MADE IT TO THE END OF THE FIRST ARC!!! As you can probably guess, Elyanna's childhood is now well and truly over. Next chapter will contain some interludes with additional POVs from various characters that I think will be interesting as well as a rough overview of things that currently and over the next few months happen all over Westeros. That's when you'll also get a first impression of the wider ramifications of Elyanna's presence and actions. After that, we will start the second arc, where the Starks (beyond Lyanna) will finally get a speaking role and canon-similar-but-not events get started.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I'm sorry for any mistakes, I haven't been able to do more than a cursory re-read, but I'll get back to it and correct any mistakes, promise! Also please leave me a comment because your feedback is honestly the main reason I keep working at this fic so regularly. Thanks everyone and I wish you a great start into the week!


	20. part xx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This, then, is the world’s greatest flaw, the hurdle that throws even the most seasoned puppet master off their game: Life is not a chess board and humans make for terrible pawns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter consists of a series of interludes. They are part of the main story and provide lots of clarifying information (I think) on where various characters stand at this point in time. They're also not sorted chronologically, but it should be fairly clear when the events approximately take place.]

_295-296 AC_

For better or worse, the world doesn’t forget Harry Potter. It couldn’t if it tried — and believe me, there are many people and many forces who have tried, have dedicated their not inconsiderable power and resources to this cause that is ultimately doomed to fail.

There’s an endless amount of tales and stories told about him. Some closer to the truth than others. Some remembered by close friends in fond memory, others spat out by bitter enemies. Every child grows up hearing the story of how Harry Potter defeated Voldemort, the darkest wizard of his time, at the tender age of seventeen. The newspapers like to rehash the events on a slow news day near the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts.

[There’s no one alive and willing to talk who will tell you that Harry Potter realized Voldemort won the war when he was nineteen and it was far too late.]

There’s nothing but stories to tell because Harry Potter and his closest friends — the Ministry Six, as they will forever be remembered — die long before their time, most of them buried in blood and tragedy. Luna Lovegood, the only surviving member, disappears at age thirty-four, and takes the last of their secrets with her.

The lectures and history books and tabloids sprout facts and fiction. List their favorite foods and spells and fighting stances and grades. After all, these are the children that reshaped the world and their names and faces will remain long after everything they fought for is ground into dust.

[In a footnote, it is mentioned that Ronald Weasley was killed by a Ministry sanctioned raid gone wrong. A misfield crime scene file will tell you that the gruesome torture and murder of Hermione Granger was never resolved. Five independent St. Mungos mind healers will testify that the terrible loss caused Ginevra Weasley’s sanity to snap to the point where she attacked and killed six innocent witches and wizards in broad daylight before the Aurors managed to take her down. She spent a year in Azkaban and managed to kill three inmates and talk another two into suicides before she was sentenced to the Veil, but no one likes to linger on that part for too long.

By that time, Neville Longbottom will already be lying in a bed in St. Mungos, next to his parents. The scandal of one particularly callous reporter remarking how there is an almost poetic beauty to the fate of the Longbottom family is only overshadowed by the Avada Kedavra Hannah Abbott throws straight into his very surprised face.]

Harry Potter dies at age twenty-one in a botched-up mission that will cost the Head Auror who made the wrong call his job. Everyone knows that. What only a select few people know is this: Harry Potter does not die alone and, more than that, he does not die unheard.

[The last thing Harry Potter sees is Luna’s wide, grey eyes, their gazes locking across the narrow street, as a coward with a name undeserving of being remembered drives a dagger into his back. He’ll never know whether it was luck they caught him that day. He’ll never know whether Luna sold him out.]

[He’ll never know that many years later, there’ll be a boy with dark, unruly hair and green eyes the color of the killing curse, with a red-haired man with a missing ear and a woman with silver blonde hair by his side, who will return to British soil and remind the world of Magical Britain why it shouldn’t have been so eager to let their names be lost in history.]

No one knows what exactly happened in Harry Potter’s last moments and no one cares once a ready-made culprit has been found, judged and deemed guilty. What are the last words of a disgraced hero worth, when the Daily Prophet can rewrite the truth to their hearts’ desire? What does it matter?

[_Harry James Potter_, the black words carved into gleaming, white marble read.

_31.07.1980 - 24.05.2002_

_Some things remain_.]

Harry Potter’s last words are blood-covered and simple and true: "You. Owe. Me."

[And it shouldn’t matter, probably. But. Harry Potter dies with a prophecy singing in his veins and a cursed dagger in his back. He dies the forsaken hope of his people, the beginning of a legend, the end of a tragedy. He dies calling in a debt owed and acknowledged in blood and magic and **_oh_**, it matters.]

_*_

On the tenth moon-turn of the year 295 AC, a red comet appears in the sky over Westeros.

*

The day King Robert Baratheon, First of his Name, is buried, the sky is clear and the sun shines bright. Cersei, dressed in an appropriately cut, black dress, is the first aside from the Ser Barristan to enter the sept.

[If one Kingsguard is needed to protect Roberts’ body, surely another four can be spared to guard her children, she’d argued — demanded — with the Small Council. And won, of course. All of them are men too smart to antagonize her over such a negligible issue. All of them are wary of not appearing concerned enough with the safety of the royal— the remaining royal family.]

As assured of her children’s security as she can be in a place that so throughly failed them, Cersei has agreed to part with them long enough to make a mandatory appearance in the sept. As the queen and Robert’s wife, she has to be here. Be seen among the mourners. [Wonder how many of them are faking. How many of the better liars she won’t be able to spot.]

Her steps echo in the silent hall as she approaches the table Robert’s body is resting on.

He’s always been a physically large man, but until this moment, where Cersei sees him lie motionless, propped up on the altar, she hadn’t realized how much of his presence was due to more than just size. Robert was a loud man in every aspect and now, for the first time, he is not.

It’s an oddly disconcerting experience.

Cersei hasn’t expected to grieve for her husband in many years. Not since she was a young girl of six and ten, who couldn’t measure up to the ghost of Lyanna Stark, and what dreams of romance she had died an agonizing death.

Most of their years of marriage, Cersei has wished for this man’s death and yet. Standing at his deathbed now, she doesn’t feel the relief and the smug sense of satisfaction she’d always expected to. Instead she feels something a couple of shades bitterer than sadness. Not for the loss of Robert as such — he was a sad excuse of a man, a horrible king who could only rule because the one who came before him had been much, much worse, a tolerable father on his better days and Cersei has hated him so long, she’s forgotten what it’s like not to — but for the life that could’ve been.

Cersei would’ve disposed of Robert the very second he’d become a credible threat to her children — to Joffrey — but despite his vile behavior and humiliating treatment of her, there’s a reason she’s rarely entertained such thoughts otherwise and never intended to see them through.

Robert might have been a horrible king, but his reign promised stability. A stability her children deserved, _needed_ to grow up. Even if she’d wanted Robert truly dead, she would have waited at least a few more years. Joffrey is still only a boy of three and ten.

_Old enough to go to war_, Jon Arryn had reminded her. _You and your precious wars can go to the seven hells_, she’d bit back and just barely restrained herself from throwing something at his head.

No, Cersei wanted many things. Robert dead, murdered in his own rooms, before her son is old enough to secure the stability in the Seven Kingdoms is not one of them. But the world is filled with things people didn’t want to happen that do anyways. As she always does, Cersei grits her teeth, keeps her face even as she gazes upon the remains of her husband, respectful but free of tears — no one within the Red Keep would believe a more emotional show, why put in the effort? — as other mourners enter the sept behind her with soft steps and hushed whispers.

[When Elyanna was nine, she caught a fever, a bad one. The maesters had told them midday, right before one of Robert’s precious hunts. To this day, that moment, looking into that old, weathered face advising her to say her goodbyes and make her peace with her daughter, is one of the worst moments of Cersei’s life.

Robert canceled that hunt. Actually, he didn’t, he simply never showed. He spent the next five days sitting at Elyanna’s bedside, only leaving when the maids kicked him out or when he had to visit the privy. Sometimes he spoke, sometimes he even sung to her, but most of the time he simply sat there, holding one of her little hands in his.

When Elyanna recovered against all odds — as her precious girl has done so often — Robert had looked Cersei straight into the eyes and called it a week well-spent. Then, he’d left before Elyanna could wake up and not visited again until he’d fully healed.

He’d spent those days drunk out of his mind with more whores than even Littlefinger could’ve kept count of.]

Cersei still remembers Elyanna’s unvoiced disappointment at her father’s continuous absence. She’d never told her about those long nights when she’d been fighting for her life. Out of spite, perhaps. Because she’d known it would’ve meant something to her daughter. She’d known Robert wouldn’t have wanted her to know.

The truth is a simple thing. Cersei hated Robert, always, but she understood him too. And for all his vices, there are parts of him that she could miss if she were to make the effort to think of them. But she has three confused, hurting, grieving children and another funeral in just a few days of a man much, much closer to her heart and— As always, the dead will have to wait in favor of the living.

On that note, Cersei turns around and leaves the sept in slow, measured steps. Blinks against the bright sunlight for a few moments before her vision clears. A red comet streaks across the blue sky above her, but Cersei pays it no mind.

_An omen sent by the Gods_, the High Septon calls it. _A herald to King Joffrey’s ascent to the throne_.

_The Red Messenger, the people call it,_ or so Varys’ claims. _A warning and a reminder of the blood and fire that is so often tied to the ascension of a new king._

Cercei, of course, believes none of it. Whatever the septons proclaims, the Gods don’t bother with human losses and stars don’t fall for people — not even for kings. Most certainly not for _Robert Baratheon_. There’s many others more deserving of that honor. Loved ones that Cersei cannot contemplate or even name, not here, not now — maybe not ever — and so she hides her trembling hands in the long sleeves of her dress, quickens her steps and continues on her way.

_*_

Illyrio Mopatis is a patient man. He has spent fifteen years patiently waiting for present events to unfold. Watched, first from the shadows, then within the safety of his own halls, as the remaining Targaryens grow in age and strength.

He’s endured Viserys’ increasingly impatient demands and seen the young man settled in his home, well-aware that his sister Daenerys —while strikingly beautiful even at her current age — will be worth more as a bargain than married off to her brother. He’s spent many a day slowly but surely convincing the hot-headed Targaryen of the wisdom of said choice.

More than that, Illyrio has gone through great pains to track down three dragon eggs so old, they’ve turned to stone and been deemed fairly useless by their previous owner. He’d been planning to gift them to the Targaryen siblings at the proper moment — a marriage gift for Daenerys or Viserys, though the latter is far less likely to secure a proper alliance — but perhaps for once the patience he is so well known for and has spent many years carefully nurturing works against him.

If the ravens are to be believed, the usurper Robert Baratheon is dead. There truly wouldn’t be a better time to strike than now— if the Targaryens had more than a handful of supporters in the shadows. As it is, the Boy King Joffrey Baratheon may be weak and inexperienced now, but unless he proves himself utterly useless, he will not remain that way for long. And with every year, his reign will become more stable, his people more comfortable with his reign.

It’s annoying to miss such a chance, but to push now would mean certain failure and that is one thing Illyrio will not tolerate. Patience, after all, may not win the race, but in the long run it always prevails. Nevertheless, preparations must be made.

And when the Gods themselves tell you a new age of dragons has come, the time to wait has most definitely passed. For Illyrio is no fool. There are many rumors, stories and whispers about the red comet in the sky. All over Westeros and Essos, commoner and nobles alike convince themselves of whatever meaning fits them best. But Illyrio has not forgotten the stories of old, nor their warnings. Let others be blinded by their arrogance and self-importance. Stars don’t fall for men. A red comet means one thing and one thing only: Dragons.

Illyrio doesn’t know how to breathe life into an egg made of stone. But the Gods have made their plans clear and if anyone can figure out how to birth a dragon three hundred years after they’ve become extinct, it’s a Targaryen.

_*_

The plan is as simple as a plan put together in under an hour by four completely unprepared people in various stages of shock and panic can possibly be.

["_We need a distraction_," Elyanna starts.

"_We can’t just walk out of the door_," Uncle Jaime reminds.

"_The more chaos and confusion, the better_," Elyanna continues like she hasn’t heard him. "_Not just for— this. I made kind of a mess in Pycelle’s room. The less of an idea anyone has about what happened, the better_."

_Alright, _Joffrey says, more to show that he’s listening despite staring listlessly at the wall and decidedly not at the body lying just a few feet away.

"_So we’re in agreement then_." Elyanna claps her hands. "_Let’s burn down the kitchen_," which is followed by three incredulous "_What?!"_’s that echo in the room.]

Much to Elyanna’s disappointment and Mern’s obvious relief, they do not burn down the kitchen.

["_Do you want to burn this entire building to the ground?"_

_"What, like you don’t?!"_]

"We could release the prisoners." Mern’s the one to first suggest it, much to everyone’s surprise.

Joffrey wonders if the boy realizes how close he is to getting himself killed — or getting killed for a crime they’re currently planning to commit. He sure as hell isn’t going to ask though, so it’s a mute point either way.

"Releasing them from the Black Cells?" Uncle Jai— Fa— _Ser_ Jaime exclaims. "Half the men go mad in there before they see the executioner’s block! It would be madness!"

Joffrey turns towards his sister without even thinking about it. Elyanna is already watching him, and it’s the press of her lips against each other that tells Joffrey what she’s about to say before her mouth gets around to form the words.

"Madness is exactly what we need."

In the end, it all works out much, much better than they could’ve anticipated. By the time Mern is screaming for the guards, over two dozen prisoners have already been freed. Some run, seek to disappear. [Truthfully, Joffrey never finds out if they kill or recapture them all.] Some go for the first guard or maid they can find.

Some are smarter than any of them had expected. A group bonded together either by their shared imprisonment or before it sneak into one of the barely used guards’ chambers, where they arm themselves with swords and armor.

Joffrey barely makes it back through his chambers before the bells sound the alarm and the Hound barricades the doors. There’s a Kingsguard and at least seven gold cloaks outside his door, but Joffrey doesn’t catch any sleep. He listens for the clashing of swords and screams instead and ignores the glances the Hound occasionally throws his way.

Sandor won’t talk and with any luck Mern will have been killed in the chaos and Joffrey will have one less thing to worry about.

[They lose four maids, three kitchen boys, sixteen guards and a lady and two lords of the court that night. Mern is not among the victims. Joffrey tells himself the twinging sensation he feels when he takes a look at the bodies is one of regret.

"Have them buried properly," he tells Ser Mandon quietly. Allows his gaze to linger on little Tanny, one of Elyanna’s personal maids. "_All_ of them."]

It’s Ser Barristan who tells him the news with a grave face first thing in the morning, once Joffrey’s chambers have been unsealed.

"My prince, I’m afraid I bear terrible news. Your father, the King, was murdered last night. And your sister, the Princess Elyanna, has disappeared. Her room was found covered in blood."

For a moment, the world stops. Joffrey doesn’t have to hide his shock. He stumbles, the cup he’d been holding slipping from suddenly numb fingers as he remembers the way Elyanna had tensed in his arms, the way she’d smelled of blood, felt like it. Joffrey had assumed it had been their fath— her father’s. He’d—

"Prince Joffrey?" Ser Barristan’s deep voice, comforting in its familiarity, brings him back to the present.

Joffrey blinks, forces himself to refocus on the kind face of the older man. He doesn’t want kindness.

"Send out men to search for my sister immediately," he croaks out. "Have the entire Keep searched, leave no stone unturned, no secret uncovered. No one—" He grits his teeth, feels his hands curl into fists as he feels anger rise in him, above and beyond his worry, so natural it should’ve scared him, but.

[_I’m being poisoned_, Elyanna whispers and feels so terribly, terribly breakable in his arms.]

"No one could’ve just walked into my father’s or my sister’s chambers. Not without help from the inside." Joffrey’s voice is cold, his face stony. "I want the traitors _found_."

"My prince," Ser Barristan bows in acknowledgement, but doesn’t leave the room. "I’m afraid there is one more thing."

Joffrey closes his eyes, visibly forces himself to take another breath._ Don’t hide your struggle_, Elyanna whispers in his ear. _Your emotions are only a weakness when they control you. Control them, use them to draw people to your side._

"What is it, Ser Barristan?"

The famous Kingsguard hesitates, but only for a moment. "Your uncle, Ser Jaime, has been found."

_*_

"Shouldn’t you be ruling by the King’s side?" Jaime asks.

That arrogant smirk of his that Cersei has only ever seen him pull off is audible in his voice. It makes her palm itch with the urge to slap him, but that would require turning around, away from the sight of the inner courtyard, and there’s not a force in the Seven Kingdoms that could convince Cersei to do such a thing.

Not when down there, on the green ground, surrounded by blooming flowers, are her children. All for of them, spread out in a manner that will surely have ruined more than one dress, laughing and yelling in a careless manner only children seem capable of.

"Shouldn’t you be protecting my daughter?" she shoots back half-heartedly. Watches entranced as Elyanna spreads out her arms, digs her fingers into the lush grass, a wide, silly grin on her lips that she doesn’t see often enough. Not by far.

Joffrey is playfully chasing a shrieking Myrcella and Gwyneth across the yard, tiring them out without drawing attention to the fact that Elyanna doesn’t join in on the game, and Cersei feels herself smile helplessly at the sight.

She loves all her children, deeply and unconditionally. Will always love them. But Elyanna is her firstborn. Her strongest, most vulnerable child. It breaks her heart to see the pallor of her skin, the way the shadows underneath her eyes darken and she grows ever thinner.

[Elyanna is the only reason she is here today, for Cersei cannot imagine a world in which she would have survived bearing two stillborn children. Cannot see anything or anyone that would have kept her from throwing herself off the highest tower she could find. Her daughter is too much like her sometimes, and even when it sends an absent pull of pain through her chest, Cersei cannot find it in herself to regret that.]

"You shouldn’t say that where Joffrey might hear." Jaime chuckles as he comes to a halt besides her. Their shoulders brush, but he doesn’t reach for her hand, doesn’t sling an arm around her waistthe way he used to. Intimate in a way only the two of them shared, the rest of the world could never hope to understand.

"He’d take offense. Think you don’t think him capable of protecting his sisters."

"Not his sisters. Elyanna." She speaks the words before she can think better of it — something that Jaime has always been best in drawing out of her. This time she wants to take them back anyways. Because this is Jaime, this is her twin. But. This is _Jaime_. This is_ her twin_.

If there’s anyone who sees what she sees, who understands her worry for what it is, it’s him.

Jaime— sighs. Rubs a hand across his brows. Which is all the confirmation she needs to know that her concern is not unfounded.

"He loves his sister." Jaime shakes his head lightly, lets the blond strands fall into his face even though they’re too short to cover his eyes. An old habit from their childhood days he hasn’t managed to grow out of. "It’s hard to say if there’s any more to it than that."

"I suppose," Cersei acknowledges because _He looks at her like she’s his entire world_ isn’t in any way going to help this conversation.

Jaime must hear it anyways. Of course he does.

"They’re not us, Cersei." His voice is low and careful for the first time since she’s begun this conversation she promised herself she would never have. He’s not looking at her either. His gaze is fixed on the heartwarming sight downstairs, where Joffrey is just throwing a squealing Myrcella into the air before he unceremoniously drops her down next to Elyanna and pulls Gwyneth into his lap, tickles her until she accidentally socks him in the jaw. "Joffrey wants Elyanna happy more than he wants to own her and Elyanna loves Joffrey, but not as all-consuming as she thinks she does. They’re not doomed to follow in our footsteps."

"No." Cersei whispers, her eyelashes wet with tears. Watches Joffrey reach out and take Elyanna’s thin hand into his own, press a quick, affectionate kiss against the back of her hand as they exchange a small smile over their sisters’ heads. "They’re better than us." She chuckles, raspy and happy and so unbearably sad. "Always have been."

_Somehow Joffrey is the best of you and me and Elyanna is the best of Robert and me and I don’t know how the three of us could create something so wondrously perfect, but I can’t regret it. May the Gods do with me what they will, I won’t_.

They are her children and there is nothing in the world they could do, no crime they could commit, that would make her stop loving them. She worries, as is her pleasure and her duty as a mother, and for none does she worry more than for her eldest child.

[All they find of her is a torn-apart bed, blood-covered sheets and a ruined dress. Some of the handprints on the floor are just the right size and Cersei doesn’t know when she started screaming. She doesn’t know when she stops.]

*

At the sound of the heavy door to her chambers creaking open, Selyse turns away from the sight of her oldest, unborn son, gently trailing her fingers over the glass as she does so.

"Lady Melisandre!" She hurries to greet her visitor. "Please, do come in. I apologize to disturb you at such a late hour."

"Nonsense, my lady. It was no trouble at all." Lady Melisandre grasps Selyse’s hands, squeezes them reassuringly. As always, her touch is warm — almost hot — and Selyse allows herself to sink into the sensation. Let it calm her tumultuous thoughts.

"Now," Lady Melisandre leads them towards the centre of the room, though Selyse notices that she doesn’t avoid the area to her left unnecessarily. She notices because everyone who usually enters does, even the maids who’ve spent years cleaning this room. It’s where she keeps her children — the ones’ they tried to take from her, the ones she refuses to allow herself to forget. "Why is it that you’ve asked for me?"

"It’s Stannis. My husband, I mean. I—" Selyse hesitates.

Words often fail her, not in the least because Stannis Baratheon, once decided, will not let his mind be changed by any word but the One True God’s himself — and even then only if the word is to his liking — but with the Lady Melisandre it is easier to find the right ones. As though they want to be shared, are eager to be heard. Perhaps they are. With Lady Melisandre being about the only one who ever listens to her — _mad_, they call her, _grief-crazed_ and _not quite right_, not to her face, but never quiet enough — she doesn’t have much use for them otherwise.

"Lord Stannis is to ride for King’s Landing in the morning, I believe." Lady Melisandre nods. "He will, of course, attend the his brother’s burial."

"And bend the knee to the future king." Selyse can’t help the bitterness that coats her voice. Nor does she wish to.

At that, Lady Melisandre turns towards her with raised eyebrows. The flickering flames of her hearth dance across her features and for a moment, Selyse can see the Lord’s fire in her eyes. "You disagree?"

"You don’t?" Selyse can’t help her incredulity. "You said it yourself, Stannis is Azor Ahai reborn! It is his destiny to defeat the Great Other, his and his alone! How can he hope to achieve this, if not by uniting the Seven Kingdoms behind his banner? Joffrey is but a green boy and neither of his sisters could hope to rule. A weak king could bring all of our end!"

Lady Melisandre remains unfazed by her outburst and Selyse feels her outrage waver at the utter calm in the other woman’s face. "And have you shared your concerns with your husband?"

"Of course I have!" Selyse _laughs_. "But Stannis won’t listen. The law of inheritance is clear, he says, and none are above the laws, not even those chosen by our Lord himself."

"Your husband is an extraordinarily strong man," Lady Melisandre says softly. Her fingers trace the metallic edges of the hearth affectionately. "It is this strength that will carry us through the Long Night and to victory."

"Not as far as an army will carry us." Selyse regrets that snipe the moment she speaks it, but Lady Melisandre only shakes her head and smiles kindly.

"It is our Lord who will carry us, my lady. Your husband knows his destiny and he has accepted it. Whether he will sit on the Iron Throne or not is for the Lord of the Light to decide." She steps soundlessly towards Selyse, frames her face with her hands as though holding something precious. "The flames do not lie and the skies themselves have announced the arrival of the prince that was promised. If our path is not yet clear, it is so by the wishes of the one true Lord and he will reveal it to us once the time is right. Have faith, my dear. Have faith in our Lord."

Shadows dance across the lady’s face, but her eyes burn bright. "Stannis will rule or all will be lost."

*

The day after the King’s death, Mern arrives on time for his shift in the Red Keep’s lower kitchen. It’s only been a couple of hours since he’s sneaked out of the dungeons and hidden himself in an unused room from the chaos the freed prisoners had unleashed upon the keep. 

[He stops by the streaks of red covering some stairs on his way to work because it would be odd for him not to. Because he’s curious and he absently wonders how many people died in last night’s fighting. Prisoners and guards both. He wonders if the prince knows.]

Already, the building is bursting with rumors and stories and gold cloaks. So many gold cloaks, patrolling the hallways, throwing dark gazes around like they’re getting extra gold for it. Mern keeps his head down, asks enough question to get an idea of what to do and otherwise keeps quiet. There’s not much to say about last night’s events.

If he gets found out, he’s dead and until he doesn’t, the bread’s not gonna bake itself. His Ma needs the gold and his little brother keeps getting into trouble. As long as he’s still working, Mern isn’t going to give anyone an excuse to kick him out.

_It’s the king_, they whisper, servant to guard to maid to lady to lord. _The king is dead_.

_Struck down in his prime_, they wail.

_Drunk himself to death and fell on his sword if you ask me_, they mock.

[Mern mutters and gapes and snorts and tries not to think of the king on the ground, closer than Mern’s ever seen him, still and smaller than he seemed to be in life. Really, all that night’s shown him is that, strewn across the streets of Flea Bottom or bleeding out over a carpet worth more gold than Mern will make all his life, dead bodies all look the same in the end.]

The first time he hears the rumors about the princess’ disappearance, Mern doesn’t even twitch. When Otter leans across the table to quietly tell him all about how they found her room covered in blood and that no one’s sure if it’s from just her or her attacker as well, that’s when he finds himself gaping for real. And ruthlessly squashing the urge to seek out the prince and figure out how to delicately ask whether the blood was part of the plan to make it convincing. Not only would it be highly suspicious, Mern isn’t sure he wants to know the answer.

He hasn’t seen Elyanna after that moment in the king’s chambers, when she’d been kneeling on the floor in her father’s blood, staring up at him with dark eyes, the only spot of color in her pale face. But the princess is smart, quick and ruthless. If any noble would think to cut their palms open to stage an attack, surely it would be Elyanna. It has to be a trick.

[What if it’s not?]

But it’s only when one of the serving girls stops by to tell them that _they’ve found the body of the Kingslayer, the queen is inconsolable _that Mern drops a plate, despite his best intention to do otherwise. Luckily, the cook is too shocked himself to do more than cuff him over the head and order him to clean the mess up.

"It’s true!" Marla, the serving girl, insists in a hushed voice. "They found him together with two gold cloaks and seven of the prisoners on the lower floor. They must’ve walked straight into an ambush. I heard a handmaid stumbled upon them. Poor girl is inconsolable — when she’s not throwing up."

"The queen must be furious."

"She’s outraged." Marla nods. "And who can blame her? Her husband, brother and eldest daughter, all in one night? Hard to believe that someone isn’t trying to kill the entire royal family off, don’t you think?"

"Shut your mouth, girl!" Otter snaps.

Marla scoffs. "I’m only saying what everyone else’s already thinking."

The ensuing argument between the two gives Mern a short moment to collect himself and pray to the Seven that the growing panic he’s feeling isn’t as visible as he fears it is. What if it’s really Ser Jaime? What if Elyanna and he never made it out of the keep? What if—

Mern cuts that thought off before he works himself into a frenzy and focuses on kneading the bread. At the moment, that’s the only thing he can do. He might as well do it right.

The day crawls by slower than most — even those terrible banquets that never seem to end — and the whispers continue to fly and grow. Mern doesn’t have to pretend he’s not interested — he would have to be dead not to be — and he doesn’t have to work for it when every new bit and piece travels through the entire kitchen at lightening speed.

Some of them are easier to hear.

["Did you hear? They smashed the Kingslayer’s face in so hard, he was unrecognizable! The only way they could identify him was by his clothes!"

"Couldn’t have happened to a more deserv—"

"Keep your mouth shut! The Queen hears you speak like that, she’ll have your head!"]

Some of them harder.

["They say the princess’ bed was covered in blood, what do you think happened?"

"You really think someone was bold enough to rape the princess in her own room after killing the king?"

"Happened to Elia Martell, didn’t it?"

"That’s _it_! Keep your trap shut before I shut it for you! I’m not getting hanged because you don’t know how to keep that poisonous tongue behind your teeth!]

By the end of the day, all Mern thinks about is how pissed off Ma will be if he doesn’t come home tonight and that he’d kill for one of his brother’s pies. It’s all he can afford to think about — because he’s Mern, one of many kitchen boys, and he’ll probably never know for sure what happened to Elyanna Baratheon and Jaime Lannister and maybe, maybe that’s for the best.

*

"What do you mean, Grandfather isn’t coming?"

"He’s a busy man, my love," Mother tries to soothe him, but Joffrey isn’t having it. He shrugs off her touch and stalks towards the closest window of the Small Council chamber — currently empty, thankfully. "And the head of House Lannister."

"Well, I _need_ him here."

There’s no one people respect like his grandfather, that much Joffrey knows for sure. No one else who can handle men like Littlefinger and Varys, keep them on their toes without escalating their little power games. Joffrey’s been taught much and learned even more, but he’s young and the number of people he can trust is smaller than it’s ever been. That two of them are no older than six is hardly encouraging.

"And what purpose would he serve?" Mother asks, which is the question Joffrey’d hoped he wouldn’t have to answer any time soon. "All the tables at the Small Council are currently occupied, dismissing any of them would be seen as a great insult. Your grandfather will ride for the city as soon as his business is settled, not before."

From the tone of his mother’s voice, Joffrey suspects he’s not the only one unhappy with that particular decision. He can see the wisdom in it. In truth, his grandfather’s arrival will do more harm to his own authority than anything short of an outright rebellion and House Lannister has few friends among the other Great Houses, who will perceive the great Tywin Lannister near the Iron Throne as a threat. But Grandfather is the most dangerous man Joffrey knows and right now he needs that expertise and council _at his side_.

Apparently, said expertise and council is much less eager to join him though. Fine. _Fine_. _Fuck him anyways_.

"But he’ll come, my sweet," Mother continues to assure him. "He wouldn’t dare refuse an order from his king."

They both know that’s a lie. Still.

"I’m not his king yet."

"You’re the heir to the Iron Throne."

_Not really, but hopefully the only people in King’s Landing who know that are you and I_.

"I haven’t been crowned yet," Joffrey counters. "Can’t be king without a crown."

Mother scoffs. "A silly ceremony, nothing more. I’ll ensure it will be held within a moon-turn. I’m sure the-"

"No." Joffrey shakes his head to empathize his point. "I’m not taking the Iron Throne yet."

"What do you mean, you’re not taking the Iron Throne?" Mother tugs rather harshly on his arm, forces him to look her in the eyes.

"That’s not what I said. I said I’m not taking the Iron Throne _yet_." The more Joffrey thinks about it, the more he warms to the idea. "We’ll hold the ceremony on my fourteenth birthday. Until then, you as the Queen Mother and the Small Council as my _most trusted_ advisors will rule in my stead. I’m too young to take the throne."

"You can’t be too young for a throne that is yours by right of birth!" Mother snaps. "Children have been sitting on that throne and you are already thirteen. Old enough to go off to war!"

Joffrey tries very, very hard not to scowl. She of all people should know better.

"What would you have me do?" he asks instead. "Command all the the Great Lords of the realm to my city, have men many years my senior bow before little more than a child and swear alliance to me? It would breed resentment, Mother, and you know it. Now, I realize we cannot put the crowning off for too long without looking weak, but a couple of moon-turns won’t make a difference. It’ll give the Lords time to prepare for their travels, they might even feel like we’re doing them a favor instead of ordering them to drop everything at once. In the meantime, I will take my rightful place in court in all but name and take part in as many council meetings as possible to gain as much experience as I can. This way, at least I will be old enough to marry by the time I take my seat properly. And maybe they will look at me with at least a smidge of respect."

There’s a moment where Mother stares at him like she’s never seen him before and Joffrey isn’t sure what to do with the odd expression on her face. Finally, she lowers her head in acceptance.

"They should respect you anyways because you are their rightful King," she murmurs. "But I see that your mind is made up and I understand and respect your decision. Your sister— Your sister would be proud of you."

*

Viserys stares at the petrified dragon eggs Magister Mopatis had presented them weeks ago. He’s spent most evenings in this very position, fascinated, mesmerized by the tangible proof of his family’s heritage. During the days, he’s read up on any and all stories of his ancestors and their many failed attempts to rebirth a dragon. None of the books seem to hold the answers he seeks.

Though, of course, had a way been found, dragons would already inhabit their rightful place in this word and in service to his family, the Targaryens would never have fallen. The usurper would’ve been burned to crisp long before Rhaegar ever had to meet him in battle and they all, Father and Mother, Rhaegar and Daenerys, would be _home_.

[_Only death can pay for life_, the cowardly assassin his foes had sent after him had hissed through bloodied lips like the snake he was. He was a fool, for Viserys Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne. He is the Dragon and the Gods’ favor him above all others. Spineless conspiracies and shadowed hoods may hinder him, injure him even, but they will never truly defeat him. Viserys has been born above such worthless dirt and despite all their pathetic threats, he remains far beyond their reach]

It’s this very incident that now has Viserys consider a new path. One he does not believe even his ancestors have thought of and if this is not destiny smiling down on him, what is?

"We will rebirth the dragons, our family’s legacy, dear sister." He smiles down at her — hasn’t stopped smiling since Illyrio Mopatis showed them the eggs for the first time. "Our blood’s strength has been returned to the world through us, so that we may continue the glory of our House allow our homeland to prosper underneath its proper king."

Daenerys’ smile is softer, more hesitant, but his sister has never been a girl of passion and strong emotions. Viserys doesn’t mind as much as he usually does, now that he can feel their true destiny right there, so close he can almost hold it in his hands.

"But how will we do that?" she asks, unsure as always, lacking the strength their family is revered for. Viserys wonders sometimes what fate would’ve befallen his sweet sister if the traitors would’ve succeeded in killing him as well. No doubt it would have been a short, joyless life with a violent end.

"I will do what even our great ancestors were too weak to do," he proclaims. "Rejoice, sister, for this is the day that will return greatness to the House Targaryen."

He says no more while Mopatis readies their supplies though he does order the man to remain behind. He will be of no help out in the desert, as far away from Pentos as Viserys dares to travel without further protection. Only twelve servants accompany them to carry the necessary supplies. Not even guards does Viserys allow for he cannot, will not allow anyone or anything to disrupt his plans. Too much hinges on this.

But the truth is there, has always been there, in their very blood. A secret so well known, even their own family has forgotten it: _Fire and blood_.

[_Only death can pay for life_.]

Viserys Targaryen departs with twelve servants carrying wood and fireable materials, three petrified dragon eggs and his sister Daenerys. He returns three days later, covered in blood, with three baby dragons.

*

Petyr Baelish is many things, but a fool he is not. Robert Baratheon’s death is a shock in many ways — the greatest being, perhaps, that the drunken moron hasn’t managed to kill himself after all — but it is the utter chaos the Red Keep has been thrown into the night of his death that truly unsettles him.

Petyr prides himself on dealing in secrets. An assassination of the king could be excused. Robert had enough enemies to populate a small Kingdom with, any one of which could’ve finally gotten tired of the blustering idiot and decided to pay for the man’s death. But what happened is more than that: The princess and heiress to the Throne after Joffrey, Elyanna Baratheon, had been taken. Not killed, probably, for why bother take a dead body, but as of yet Petyr hasn’t heard a word confirming either her life or death. She has simply disappeared. Thanks to the prisoners running wild through the keep, Petyr has also lost a fairly reliable investment in the chaos, which is always a shame. Nevertheless, there has to be more to the events of that night, anyone with half a wit can see it.

But it’s not until Grand Maester Pycelle reveals that his own chambers have been broken into that Petyr realizes he, too, has let the tantalizing drama blind him to the truth. Oh, the King’s been standing with one leg inside a grave for a long time now, anyone could see that. For him to be killed so brutally and needlessly though, now that has all the markers of an amateur… or a fantastic distraction.

It’s almost outrageous to contemplate that the very murder of half the royal family might be nothing more than a distraction and yet. Few have anything to gain from the nights events, save for weakening the Baratheons. But if the goal had been to end a dynasty, why go for the eldest daughter first instead of the son and heir old enough to rule in his father’s stead?

No, Petyr realizes with the cool satisfaction of a puzzle slowly coming together, the culprit wouldn’t have wanted to erase the royal family, only to weaken it. Weaken it so that, once another, stronger candidate for the throne was within reach, it would be all to easy to topple them whole. Yet avoid the chaos and bloodshed that would’ve surely followed, had Robert’s other children been murdered as well. Varys, after all, has a well-known distaste for needless death and violence, has never embraced chaos in its wonderful entity like Petyr has. And if the opportunity should present itself to get to the bottom of some of the Grand Maester’s less bedroom-related secrets, what self-respecting spy master would resist such a temptation?

It would be gratifying, of course, to approach the grieving Queen with his concerns. But Varys is a familiar opponent and predictable in his own way. Not to mention that there’s nothing to be gained by revealing Varys’ as the mastermind behind this little scheme at this point in time. The truth is, Varys has done him a favor. Petyr strives in chaos and until the knowledge becomes more valuable to the Queen and the Lannisters have something Petyr wants, there’s no reason to stir the pot. Particularly when, sooner or later, Ned Stark will make his way to the capital to swear fealty to the new king.

No. For the time being, at least, Petyr will allow Varys to believe he’s gotten away with his trick. "Well played, old friend." He raises his glass of expensive, Dornish wine. "Well played indeed."

*

When Joffrey asks Elyanna if she loves him, it’s not a test. It’s _not_. [If it was though, she passes with flying colors like she always does.] It’s not and when she tells him that she’ll always love him, no matter what, Joffrey believes her. He believes that she truly means it, that they are siblings bound by love no matter what blood ties they have, and feels lighter than he has in weeks for it.

Joffrey doesn’t intend to put her oath to a test. Not ever and especially not so soon.

To tell the truth, it’s not about Elyanna at all. For once, it’s about Joffrey himself. About his future, his life, his family. It’s about the simple fact that he _needs to know_.

[There’s a moment, shortly before Elyanna disappears in the dark hallways of their home to gather her things, when Joffrey opens is mouth to tell her.

"What about Mother?" is what he ends up saying instead. He doesn’t mean to avoid the discussion they need to have, but he can’t bring himself to do it in this very moment either. Elyanna is only barely hanging onto her usual mask of calmness and right now, disturbing it could spell all of their deaths. Joffrey won’t risk that. He’ll never risk that.

It might be an excuse, but it’s based on it’s own truth and all the more potent for it.

"Mother’s in her chambers," Elyanna answers without looking away from where she’s staring at Father— her father’s body again. "She always has at least two guards and she’s the Queen besides, the Kingsguard will keep her save once chaos breaks out. They might be criminals, but they can’t just walk into the Queen’s chambers without anyone noticing. Especially not with the alarm."

Joffrey isn’t sure if Elyanna deliberately misinterprets his question or if what he means doesn’t occur to her. [_What will we tell Mother?_] Then she’s gone and the chance to ask has well and truly passed.

Of course, deep down Joffrey knows the truth. He knows that Elyanna wouldn’t want their mother to suffer, would never wish it upon her to believe one of her children dead. She’s probably thought it a foregone conclusion that Joffrey would take her aside and tell her the truth — after that first reaction of grief, perhaps, to ensure that the vipers of the Red Keep are convinced of their little theatre. Elyanna has a keen mind for strategy, and as cruel as it is, this is a move Joffrey knows his sister would consider acceptable.

It’s keeping quiet after the message has been given, after he’s watched his mother sink to her knees in Elyanna’s chambers, clinging to her bloodied, torn sheets that will give him night terrors for years to come, after she’s screamed and cried herself raw, that Joffrey should’ve taken her aside. Should’ve let her know and trust in his mother’s ability to keep the facade of mourning up in spite of it.

And he would have. Joffrey doesn’t take any pleasure in his mother’s pain, his sisters’ tears. It would break Elyanna’s heart to see them like this, and that’s a crime all of its own. Joffrey would’ve come clean the moment he’d been given the chance if only—

Elyanna knows Joffrey better than anyone else and Joffrey likes to think the reverse is true as well.But his sister — she will always be his sister, she swore, and Joffrey thanks all the Gods he knows every day for that — sees the best in him, always. Sometimes that blinds her as much as Joffrey knows his love for her limits his own sight.

Mother loves him as well, loves all of them. His mother will kill for him if need be, will never move against him. That, Joffrey has never doubted. She knows him well, too, not in the same way Elyanna does, but no less true.

Joffrey could tell her everything, he could. Of the plan, of Elyanna’s discovery, their disappearance. But there’s certain parts of him that Mother sees clearer than anyone else and sometimes, sometimes that scares him. Because if Joffrey told her what really happened, his mother would take one look at him, and she would _know_.

["Joffrey?" Ser Jaime is visibly surprised to see him. Granted, no one has seen much of him lately, Joffrey’s made sure of that.

"I need to speak with my father," he says and wonders if the man across him can hear the mocking echoing in that phrase.

"Now? I don’t think that’s a good idea, the King has ordered _entertainment_," here, Ser Jaime’s face briefly transforms into a sneer, "for the night."

"The whores will have to wait then," Joffrey snaps unkindly. "I need to speak with my father now."

Ser Jaime hesitates for a long moment, then lets him pass without another word.]

It’s a choice Joffrey first makes long before he sees his mother after that terrible, endless night. A choice he is faced with when Ser Barristan leads him to the broken body dressed in the white cloak of a Kingsguard, beaten and burned beyond recognition, surrounded by two more dead guards and over ten prisoners. Joffrey kneels down besides the body and carefully pulls the sword free from the dead man’s hand. It’s one of his uncle— father’s, the one he’s always disliked the most, and somewhere underneath his stony mask, Joffrey allows himself a relieved breath.

There’s a choice to be made here that is easy, for it is the choice that will protect his sister the most.

[There’s one missing Kingsguard and one dead body that fits the bill and this is the kind of gift Joffrey couldn’t have foreseen but welcomes with open arms.]

"Give my uncle the burial he deserves for his loyal service to the crown," Joffrey says and if there’s any irony in those words, none around him are fool enough to point it out.

There’s a choice to be made that afternoon, when he enters his mother’s chambers and meets her swollen, red-rimmed eyes. He wishes that choice was harder, but in the end Joffrey is no more honorable than the men who fathered and raised him.

"I’m so sorry, Mother," he whispers and lets her pull him in her arms, feel her body shake against his. It’s the least he can do.

["Father—"

He should’ve expected the slap. Truth is, Joffrey barely feels it. His head is ringing, but it’s hard to say whether that’s due to the force with which he’s slammed against the wall or due to the shouts that echo in his head, drown out all rational thoughts.

"I’ll have you killed for this!" his not-father is shouting, red-faced from rage rather than wine for once and he’s not even talking to Joffrey. "You and your whoring cunt of a sister! I’ll have your poisonous seed stamped out from this earth, cut those incestuous runts down until—"

"—_no more of a threat than that incestuous little bastard you brother-fucking whore call a son ever was!_"

Joffrey is frozen, has been frozen since he’s first heard those words that weren’t meant for his ears the first night he’d come to make peace with Elyanna. He’d run then. Had been running for weeks now. But Elyanna never runs and tonight, tonight Joffrey’d sworn to himself he would stop running.

_You’re family_, his sister had told him and Joffrey’d believed her. He knows she loves him. Knows Myrcella and Gwyneth love him because they are too young to lie about such things, too young to know any better. Knows his mother and not-Uncle Jaime love him. He had to know if his not-Father would. He _had_ to.

Uncle Jaime is trying to calm him down, trying to get the situation under control, but Joffrey knows his father and better than any of his sisters' he knows his father’s rage. There’s no reasoning with him right now and Joffrey will not have Elyanna, will not have his family pay for his mistakes. He won’t run either, no matter that Un— _not_ Uncle Jaime is clearly trying to give him the opportunity.

He _won’t_.

Joffrey doesn’t know how he gets a hold of his father’s sword, but he’s _not running_.]

If the maesters put a bit more stock in omens, if the septons were a little less blinded by their Gods, if the people in the streets weren’t so stuck on songs and stories to give themselves hope and entertainment, maybe they would look up at the blood splattered across the sky where the stars have written the truth of his crime for all the world to see. But they’re not and Joffrey will take what he can get.

_Forgive me, Elyanna_.

*

Three days after the death of Robert Baratheon, deep within the woods surrounding the King’s Road towards the Reach, Harry Potter opens his eyes to wet leaves beneath his fingertips and the fading sense of a burning pain in his _stomachsidechestback_.

Far above him, a blood red comet travels steadfast onward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a massive pain. It's one thing to write Cersei, Joffrey or Mern. I know those characters fairly well and had a good feel of their headspace, if that makes sense. But Selyse Baratheon?? Honestly, I have no idea how I feel about her or Melisandre, but I hope the scene worked for you. Also Viserys. Merlin, don't get me started on Viserys.  
But yeah, if it wasn't clear so far: The first arc is where we slowly deviate from canon. The second arc is where we kick canon in the balls, make a break for our car, take off and only take an occasional look in the rearview mirror to ensure that we're still putting more distance between it and canon. Seriously. For those of you who missed it, yes, I did indeed kill off Daenerys in this chapter. Who'd have thought?  
For the Harry Potter 'vers/Harry's previous life: Picture all seven books happening more or less the same (just slightly darker, more jaded characters maybe) and forget everything about that epilogue. Then just assume that killing off Voldemort didn't magically fix anything, the Ministry was its usual, incompetent self and the Death Eater supporters continued their work. That's pretty much it.  
I know some of you already had doubts about what went down with Robert, Joffrey and Jaime, so I hope that clears it up! [We'll probably hear Jaime's POV on it at some point, but it might take a while.] We also get to see how things took a few more or less unexpected turns in this chapter, like Jaime being declared dead and Cersei being clueless about everything.  
That reminds me, this chapter's summary? Is actually a quote from a future chapter I haven't written yet. So don't assume this is meant for just this chapter- it relates to the entire second arc. Remember it, please, because it's gonna continue to bite everyone in the ass.  
Alright, that's it from my side. What do you guys think? Did you like it? Any surprises, questions or parts you really enjoyed? Please let me know what you think of this chapter in the comments and have a lovely start into the week!


	21. part i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Alright," Harry says after a moment, skillfully ignoring Jaime’s judgmental look. "That wasn’t supposed to happen."

_296 AC_

_Breathe in._

_And out._

_And in._

_And out._

_And in._

"Eli?"

_And out._

_In._

_Out._

_In._

_Out._

"Eli?"

_In._

_Out._

_In—_

"Eli!"

Harry’s head snaps around in response to the shout, eyes open wide but unseen, right hand raised with his index finger pointed straight at the approaching threat. Said approaching threat flinches back and raises his unarmed hands pointedly. There’s wariness — _fear_ — on his face even now, that Harry wishes wouldn’t still hurt to see.

The pulse of pain anchors him in the present and he lowers his hand. [It’s not like he needs to raise it to accomplish what he wants, but old habits die hard.] Jarren must know this as well as Harry — he’s seen him commit too many impossible acts for any sane man to be comfortable with — but some of the tension leaves his shoulders nonetheless.

"What is it?" Harry asks. Clears his throat twice because his tongue feels like sandpaper, his voice dusty with disuse.

Jarren — who used to be Jaime Lannister, Uncle, Kingslayer, Ser — sighs. "When was the last time you drank any water?" Even as he speaks, he’s already reaching for their supplies.

Harry swallows. Shrugs. It’s hard for him to keep track of time when he meditates. Hard to keep track of things in general, what with the memories that live and breathe under _their_ skin, so very eager to slide into his consciousness at the slightest opportunity. When the fluttering against his rips, fully in sync with his heartbeat but much more intense, is some days the only thing that feels _real_.

"I’m approaching you, Eli," Jarren murmurs as Harry traces the lush grass that tickles his legs.

They’ve both learned the hard way that coming too close without warning when Harry is out of it is a bad idea. Harry’s gaze flickers, tracks Jarren’s progress across the clearing they’ve settled in for the past week or so.

"Gonna sit down by your side and touch your chin, tilt it backwards," Jarren continues. He’s using the same voice he talks with to spooked horses and small, crying children, but Harry can’t muster up the energy to be offended by that. He’s lost in the warmth that radiates from the grass, the ground beneath him, soaks up the pure _life_ like a dried out sponge.

[What a fitting metaphor.]

Harry swallows reflexively, lets the water soothe his aching throat, lets himself sink into Jarren’s familiar presence. A state of calm, he’s found, is when he recovers the fastest, when these continuous accidents happen the least. Jarren’s still talking, a soft cascade of meaningless words that washes over him for several minutes before Harry becomes aware enough to process them.

Right now, Jarren — it’s easier to think of him like this than of the confusing mixture of _unclefamilystrangerprotectorkillerfriend_ that his true name would echo with, especially when Harry’s like this — is describing their surroundings in great detail. To anchor him, perhaps, or just to keep them both calm. The last few moon-turns haven’t been easy on either of them, but it’s been especially difficult for Jarren.

Jarren, who’d had to carry their unconscious, useless body through the woods for days, seek shelter wherever he could, and hope and pray that the herbs he managed to find would help her heal. Harry hadn’t done a good job of thanking him for that consideration, truth be told. In his defense: He hadn’t yet been Eli when he’d woken. He certainly hadn’t been Elyanna. [He still isn't.]

*

When he wakes up that first day, the memories, _Harry Potter’s_ memories, are clearer than ever before. Overwhelmingly so. He goes from that piercing pain in his back, the slick black magic oozing through his veins, setting his blood aflame, feeling the blood rise in his throat, _choking on it_ to jerking upright in a green meadow deep in the woods, breathing the freshest air he’s tasted in years within the blink of an eye.

That the experience was disconcerting would be a grave understatement. Frankly, it’s a miracle that Harry hasn’t killed Jaime Lannister — unknown, armed, threat — the moment the man returned to the campsite. Or — even more disastrous — tried to apparate to one of his hideaways across England. Part of that must have been his injury, part his completely unfamiliar body and surroundings, part the instinctual knowledge that Jaime wouldn’t harm him. Exactly none of it had stopped Harry’s magic from lashing out, more responsive and eager to assist than he could remember it ever being.

Thankfully, they’ve both survived the experience. Although Jaime has walked on egg shells around Harry ever since. A good thing, considering it has taken him days to even remember why the name Elyanna sounds familiar. So damn potent are his own memories that, for a while, they’ve drowned out everything else there is. For a while.

The memories of Elyanna — her siblings, her family, her fears, her dreams, her frustration, her shock — have returned in bits and pieces. Daydreams and nightmares, flashbacks and simple facts that lodge themselves seamlessly into Harry’s mind like they’ve always been there.

[Joffrey doesn’t like the taste of wine, even though he’s learned to pretend otherwise. Myrcella loves green dresses more than any other color. Gwyneth calls her 'Anna'.]

The memories of _being_ Elyanna — watching her father bleed out on the ground, holding Joffrey close like she can hold him together through willpower alone, Mother’s arm around her shoulders, that first breath outside the Red Keep, when everything fell away and something within her was finally freed — those take longer. It must have been difficult, agonizing really, for Jaime to endure, but more than an entire moon-turn passes before he looks at Harry and can see smidgens of _Elyanna_ look back. Longer still for Harry to stop feeling like he’s faking, for Elyanna to become more than an imaginary childhood friend other people can see that he can’t reconcile with himself.

They spend almost two months in that clearing and although Jaime doesn’t question it and Harry doesn’t offer, the only reason they haven’t long been found is because _they_ _don’t want to be found_.

[Magic didn’t use to be so easy, so natural, so instinctive. It should worry Elyanna — definitely worries Harry — but. One issue at a time.]

Even with a complete set of Harry’s and Elyanna’s memories to fall back on, it takes him-her-them a while to figure things out. Elyanna has no true understanding of the human psyche or magical theory beyond what Harry himself knows and has unconsciously taught her. And Harry’s never displayed talent or interest in the mind arts — beyond withstanding the Imperio and dealing with those useless Occlumency lessons in his fifth year at Hogwarts — so it’s really more guesswork and playing detective with a focus on self-discovery.

What Harry works out early on — what Elyanna has spent the past nine years carefully _not_ working out — is the basics: Harry was there first. Harry has been reincarnated for whatever reason, which is yet another question to be investigated at a later date. The point is, Harry Potter has been there from the beginning. He was reincarnated in a female body, probably the Potter luck, and by all logic, he should’ve _been_ Elyanna. Elyanna as a separate entity doesn’t exist. _Never has_.

[Has she? Is Elyanna a distinct person, an individual? Would there be enough left of her without those parts she took and adapted from Harry to count as a real person? Does it matter?]

In all likelihood, if Harry Potter’s memories hadn’t been spotty and half-suppressed long before Elyanna became something distinct and corporate inside his own mind, if Harry hadn’t been so tired and afraid of the half-remembered horrors in his own mind, this divide of sorts would have never existed. But they were and he was and so what happened was this: Harry didn’t want to be Harry Potter. Didn’t want to be the Boy Who Lived. Didn’t want to be the Man Who Conquered.

So he became someone else instead.

Being Elyanna was easier. Locking Harry Potter away was easier. Forgetting and suppressing everything she didn’t consider a part of herself, didn’t _want_ to have as a part of herself was easier. Until it wasn’t. Until she missed the parts of her she’d never liked, the memories she couldn’t fully grasp, the holes they’d left behind, the feel of the magic surging underneath her skin. Until Harry Potter became what she wanted to go back to, the dearly beloved past that is always simpler and more straight-forward than the ever-shifting present.

Unsurprisingly, that’s not how it works.

Tearing down the wall between the two of them was only a first step. At the very beginning, when Harry first built Elyanna, there was almost no distinction between the two. But Elyanna has grown so much since then, experienced so much, and Harry, who used to be a shadow of his former self, has full access and understanding of who and what he is now.

[The sum of their parts is more than one person, is the thing.]

[_Is this what an accidental horcrux could’ve been like if Voldemort’s hadn’t been so twisted and broken, if it had been allowed to grow and develop? _Harry wonders. Then immediately puts that train of thought to a halt because even with the Harry Potter Effect™ in full effect, he can’t have possibly created an accidental horcrux, least of all as a four year old, mostly magic-less child.]

It’s— difficult. To figure out where Harry ends and Elyanna begins. Parts of them mesh seamlessly with each other, soothe aches neither has realized they suffer from until they finally knit themselves together and the wounds begin to scar. Other parts don’t fit at all, continue to collide painfully, an endless tug-war between two people who used to be the same person.

["I’m having an existential crisis," Elyanna proclaims when Ser Jaime asks her if she’s alright. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with that any more than she does.]

Ironically, Jaime’s consistent reminders that they cannot stay in these woods forever help with that. For one, he’s got a point, for all that they’ve sat up a fairly comfortable — magically so — camp. For another, it gives HarryElyanna something besides themselves and their messed-up sense of self to focus on. Reminds them that the world keeps on turning and every week they waste here, in the middle of nowhere, playing shrink for each other, is another one where they don’t see Joffrey, Mother, Myrcella and Gwyneth. Where the maesters continue their work. Where the realm might descend into civil war if Joffrey’s true heritage were to become known. Where someone might decide to attack her family in the wake of Father’s death.

No.

They cannot let that happen. In other words, they need to get their shit together, get their ass to Oldtown and deal with the Order of the Maesters, so that they can rejoin King’s Landing as soon as possible. Elyanna has faith in her brother but Harry doesn’t believe in kings — least of all children placed on thrones before their time, with no trustworthy advisor in sight — and neither of them likes the idea of leaving their family on their own for longer than strictly necessary.

Decision made, HarryElyanna and Ser Jaime pack up their little camp and travel to Oldtown, just as planned. They take their time, travel on foot and not too close to the proper roads, because they don’t know how many people are still looking for them. And also because of certain issues that become more obvious the longer they travel together.

The first one probably can’t be counted as a proper issue, given that it takes Harry all of five minutes to decide how to handle it. Being that they are hunted right now, certain precautions need to be taken. While pictures, cameras and the internet obviously aren’t a concern, Jaime Lannister and Elyanna Baratheon are two comparatively well-known individuals. Being on the move _together_ only increases the likelihood of someone recognizing them for who they are. Considering their destination is one of the largest cities in the Seven Kingdoms with many noble and well-educated people among its populace, that could be a problem.

Of course, Elyanna’s been sneaking in and out of the Red Keep since she was old enough to understand that the guards won’t leave her alone just because she asks nicely. And Harry has been hunted for half his life. Becoming the Eli to Ser Jaime’s Jarren is a foregone conclusion, once they both take the time to think things through. The whole of Westeros is on the lookout for a missing princess and a twice oath-breaking kingslayer. Why would that cause anyone to pay undue attention to a worn down sellsword and the skinny boy he travels with?

It’s the first time in Elyanna Baratheon’s life that her poor physical state is a blessing. For all that she’s almost fifteen years old, her body hasn’t matured to reflect that age. Too busy fighting the poison, too sick to spare the energy. Her chest remains flat, the curve of her hips easily covered by the right cloth. With her trademark long, wild locks shorn off and Harry Potter’s trademark fringe to cover the scar on her forehead, Elyanna barely recognizes herself.

[Harry does though and maybe that’s another advantage of their disguise: Eli is so clearly a compromise, a figure between the two of them, a mask that Harry or Elyanna could live with and see themselves in, without excluding each other’s formative touches. It’s a start.]

The disguise won’t work forever. Ser Jaime and Harry himself have already noticed their rapid recovery — too fast to be natural in any shape or form. Not just from the wound Eon’s poisoned dagger left behind — and oh, but the irony of yet another stab wound on the eve of Harry’s awakening makes it hard to decry the Fates’ involvement — that has knitted itself back together within hours, scarred before the week was over and fades more with every day.

[The poison, Harry suspects, has been literally burned out of their veins during his magic’s first outburst, so driven by its instinctive desire to _protect_ and _keep save_ that it wouldn’t have tolerated such an offense.

He still doesn’t understand what Eon thought to accomplish. But the thought of the boy Elyanna thought a friend hurts and there’s already so many other things he has to worry about. They’ll deal with Eon’s betrayal if they run into him again, and not a moment before.

And if sometimes Harry dreams of a blonde woman wearing Eon’s face, who wields a dagger dripping with evil intent, well, he and Elyanna are not as far apart from each other as they were a few weeks ago.]

It’s obvious even to Ser Jaime, who has no experience with magic beyond the tricks of wood witches and red priests, that their health is improving at a magical rate. From one day to the next, Elyanna’s nails stop breaking. Her hair grows thicker and shinier. Her skin flushes and darkens from sickly pale to a healthy pinkish tone. She eats constantly, same as she used to, but now she can’t count her rips by lifting up her shirt anymore and Ser Jaime swears her face looks rounder than it used to be.

More importantly, Harry isn’t out of breath just because he chooses to walk a couple of steps. Any dizziness they feel is from a sudden unbalance between Harry and Elyanna, not their physical weakness. He’s begun _running_ again. Merlin, Harry hadn’t realized how useless he’d become until he’s suddenly free to do what he wants. Until he has the energy to do what he wants. And if there’s one thing he has in spades, it’s energy.

That it will probably mean a second shot at puberty soon isn’t lost on Harry, but he’s determined not to think about that part just yet. He’s not as clueless as he could be — he might have died young, but living on the run with first Ron and Hermione and later Ginny and Luna hadn’t left much room for privacy — but it’s not something he enjoys thinking about. Particularly since Harry can count the number of his personal experiences in a female body on one hand.

[Ron would be extremely self-satisfied to know that Harry’s finally found a use for the longterm polyjuice infiltration training program that the two had come up with when drunk though. Not that either of them had foreseen such a _permanent_ application, but that’s why they justified it as preparation for unexpected developments.

Besides improvisation has always been Harry’s strongest suit.]

For now, though, Harry can easily pass himself off as Eli, so he will make the most of it. But while becoming Eli and Jarren solves one of their problems, it doesn’t solve the more pressing one: Harry’s magic.

*

Harry gets his first clue that his magic isn’t _quite_ what his memories indicate it should be only hours after he wakes up post-death for the second time. It’s after some of his confusion has abated, after the initial confrontation-turned-questioning between Ser Jaime and him are over and they’ve come to an uneasy truce, after Harry has worked through enough of the mess inside his own head to realize that he’s dead but not.

It’s the memories of his death — ultimately neither as painful nor as horrifying as he’d expected it to be, and yet Harry can’t help but think he preferred Voldemort’s _Avada Kedavra_ over that bloody dagger — that prompt Harry to check himself over.

After the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione had hypothesized that by uniting the Deathly Hallows and returning from the dead, Harry had become the Master of Death. What that title _meant_ had been a subject of many heated discussions and arguments over the next two years, before Harry’d turned his back on the Ministry for the final time and everything had fallen apart. One of Hermione’s ongoing theories had been that the Hallows wouldn’t bow to another master now, that they would follow Harry wherever he went. Harry hadn’t tested it, partly because he’d just never found the time. Partly because he hadn’t been sure what a confirmation would mean for him, no matter on which side the galleon would fall.

Now he’s been reborn in some weirdly medieval society — and coming from someone raised in Magical Britain, that’s quite a statement — which seems like high time to test Hermione’s suspicion. Of course, if she was right, he should have already woken up with the invisibility cloak wrapped around him or the elder wand in his hand at some point during his early childhood years. But there’s been no sign of any of them, as far as he can tell.

[He carefully pushes aside the vague memory of a shade not unlike the ghosts of his parents that once walked him to his death. Out of all three Hallows, Harry considers the resurrection stone the most dangerous one. The most _tempting_ one. That’s one particular talent he can definitely do without. Voldemort’s inferni were bad enough, but that stone is worse.]

Now, on the run in this strange, vaguely familiar world because _of course_ he is, Harry is determined to explore his best friend’s theory further. If only because he’d much prefer an unbeatable wand in his hand than lying around somewhere for Merlin knows whom to stumble upon. If the elder wand even exists here. Thus, Harry’s first attempt of conscious magic is a simple, wandless summoning charm.

In tried and true Harry Potter fashion, nothing happens.

Harry spends a long moment simply waiting with an outstretched hand in the middle of a small meadow. Depending on the location, the summoning can take time. He must look silly to Ser Jaime, sure, but that’s a secondary concern. As far as Harry can tell, the man doesn’t have any magic and is emotionally attached to Harry — or, well, his pretty face at least — besides. Much more interesting is the fact that no wand comes zapping through the woods, slapping into his palms like it belongs there.

Well. Harry supposes he should’ve expected that. It would’ve made things too bloody easy. When have the Fates ever dropped a powerful weapon in his hand without him already in the middle of losing a fight for his life? Exactly. Either the elder wand doesn’t exist in this — far off future? distant past? alternate universe? alternate dimension? afterlife? — world or the charm isn’t working the way it should.

While the first option is perfectly reasonable, Harry can’t, in good conscience, exclude the second possibility without further tests.

[It doesn’t occur to him that his magic might not work at all, might be _gone_, and how could it? Magic is a part of him, intrinsically tied into who he is, even back when he was a clueless child who didn’t know what the electricity dancing on his skin meant. He can feel it even now, the way the magic soars inside him, traces every part of him, eager and proud and loving. It gently maps out oversensitive nerve endings, heals aches that he only becomes aware of as they fade.

No, Harry Potter can’t and has never imagined a life without magic. A life without using magic, perhaps, but not one without _being_ it. He can’t. Harry is a _wizard_. It’s what he is, _who_ he is. There’s a reason you can’t just take someone’s magic away, the reason all those horror stories of muggleborn children stealing a squibs rightful magic are complete bullshit. It’d be like trying to rip out the entire nervous system of a muggle’s body— that it would kill them is the least of it.

You can suppress magic, sure, You can twist it, deform it, break it. But you can’t erase it and you can’t steal it from someone else.] 

Harry frowns as he considers the few spells he might manage wandlessly. Considering the amount of energy, concentration and skill wandless magic takes, he and his friends have focused on the ones that would give them the greatest edge in a fight or flight situation. Basic spells —_Lumos_ because blinding your opponents is more useful than you might think, _Alohomora_ because Dumbledore isn’t the only wizard convinced that will keep people out, _Accio_ because losing your wand is the kind of worst case scenario you don’t want to die from — and three very much not basic ones that Ron had jokingly christened the Nonforgiveables — _Sectumsempra_ for every enemy who thinks himself victorious, _Obliviate_ for every secret they can’t afford to have revealed and _Fiendfyre_ to salt and burn the earth of every lost battle they fight — are the ones they’ve focused on the most.

Surprisingly, Fiendfyre had turned out to be the easiest. Harry privately suspects the only reason information on the cursed fire is so wide-spread is that most witches and wizards have no idea just how easy it is to cast it. Another fine example of the prevailing lack of logic, really. Fiendfyre _wants_ to be cast. It _wants_ to burn. It’s controlling it, putting it out once it’s consumed everything you want to go up in flames, that’s the true challenge. Anyone with a bit of magical ability and a whole lot of determination can ignite it, with or without a wand. On the downside, keeping it under control without a wand is almost impossible.

[Ron knew that when he used it to give Harry the chance to escape. The flames flickered around his fingertips so eagerly, so joyfully, and even with the goodbye written over his face, Ron had _laughed_, Harry remembers. They’d never found out if Ron had been killed by one of the Aurors or if it had been the fire that had consumed him. There’d been no one left to tell, by the end of it. It had taken a host of Aurors and Unspeakables the better part of a day to get the fire put out for good.]

Harry still can’t believe the Room of Requirement managed to contain Crabbe’s idiocy during the Battle of Hogwarts. It’s the one and only time he’s seen Fiendfyre used without major collateral damage.

Needless to say, Fiendfyre is about the last spell Harry’s gonna attempt to cast without a wand and in the middle of the woods no less. What a way to end the world that would be.

"_Wingardium Leviosa_," Harry murmurs instead, points towards a twig lying on the ground just a few steps to his right.

[He’s always been fond of this particular charm, the one that had been the beginning in so many ways, had saved them from the troll, brought Harry, Ron and Hermione together for real. It’s fitting that it should be this one, even here. A tribute to the ones he’s lost and the ones he never meant to leave behind.]

As expected, the twig rises into the air. By which Harry means shoots in the air sharp enough that it would’ve whacked Harry in the face and probably broken his nose if he’d stood right above it. What’s decidedly less expected is that the three trees closest to it also begin to rise, if a bit slower and with protesting creaks and groans as their roots are pulled out of the ground.

There’s also the exhilarating thrill of his magic, so eager, so excited to be of help, but Harry barely notices, busy as he is gaping at the floating trees. Thank Merlin Jaime Whatever is similarly staring or that would’ve been seriously embarrassing.

The moment Harry’s shock breaks his concentration, the twig and trees drop back down. Two ache and groan but seem to sink back into their position, more or less. The third’s roots have been pulled all the way out though, and once Harry’s magic releases its grip it sways for a moment before it falls. Harry and Jaime watch in silence.

"Alright," Harry says after a moment, skillfully ignoring Jaime’s judgmental look. "That wasn’t supposed to happen."

_Understatement of the century, anyone?_

*

Since that first attempt, Harry has spent a lot of time experimenting with his magic. It’s a welcome distraction for when he gets tired of the whole _am I Harry_, _am I Elyanna_, _do I even exist_ spiel he’s dealing with inside his mind. He’s tried his fair share of spells, jinxes and curses — all of which work as they should, if somewhat better and simultaneously less controlled than he’s used to — much to Jaime’s discomfort. That they work at all should be a comfort, but to someone who’s seen the dangers of uncontrolled magic firsthand, it’s really not.

Particularly since Harry doesn’t understand where it’s coming from.

True, emotions and a person’s mental state affect their magic just as much as their physical health. And yes, Harry _and_ Elyanna have been hurt, murdered and betrayed. If it was just that his charms turn out a little whacky, Harry might not have twitched an eyebrow. But it’s more than that. As the master of the elder wand, subject of a prophecy and favorite target of a late-and-very-much-not-missed Dark Lord, Harry is perhaps uniquely qualified to understand the power of his own magic.

He’s been obsessed with it since Dumbledore first revealed the bloody prophecy to him, almost by necessity. The Dark Lord’s equal, he’d been named, which was such a pile of pretentious bullshit, Harry still can’t believe Voldemort’s fallen for it. Equal on which terms, exactly? Age? Experience? Magical theory? _Power_?

No. Harry had let the Ministry believe what they wished because it benefitted him, but he’d known the truth from the moment he’d first faced Voldemort’s remnants on the back of Quirrel’s head during his first year at Hogwarts. The only time Voldemort and he have been equals was during the Battle of Hogwarts and even then it was only because Voldemort had killed his own horcrux, had used the elder wand against his master, that they’d been on equal grounds.

Harry is powerful, he knows that. Although his true strength lies in his power of will, not of magic. But he also knows what it feels to augment that power, what it feels to wield ancient relics and an unbeatable wand. And so when Harry casts and watches as his _Sectumsempra_ cuts a thick tree stump in half without any effort, he knows that he’s more powerful than he should be for a fact. What he doesn’t know is why.

Why did it take him years to wake up, _really_ wake up in this world? Why are his memories crystal clear where they used to be blurry and faded impressions he couldn’t grasp completely? Why hasn’t Elyanna been able to use magic? Why can he now? Why is he stronger than he should be?

Why?

*

"Jarren?"

Jaime startles at the unexpected sound. Elyanna doesn’t speak much. Hasn’t since she’s woken up in that wrecked meadow that Jaime had eventually carried her out of because the risk of discovery there was simply too great and looked at him like he’s a stranger. No, that’s not quite true. Like _she_’s a stranger.

She’s walking besides him now with a calm ease that Jaime hasn’t seen in his niece in years. She jumps over a couple of roots on light feet, so effortless, so at odds with the half-dead child locked away in her chambers that she’s been for the better part of her life.

[Jaime hates himself for thinking it, knowing the pain their disappearance must cause Cersei far better than most people, but some days he thinks taking Elyanna away from the Red Keep was the best thing he could’ve done for her. She’s healing. More than that, she’s healthy. There’s a flush to her cheeks and a glitter in her eye and her hair has recovered some of its thickness and shine. Jaime can’t remember the last time Elyanna has looked so _well_.]

"Eli," he responds, mainly to get them both used to the names they’ve chosen for themselves.

"You’re not as— upset about this as I expected you to be." Elyanna carefully doesn’t look at him as she speaks, though the way she stumbles over the word 'upset' is telling in itself.

Jaime wonders what is going on behind those deep, green eyes that determinedly stare at the path before them.

"About what?"

From the scoff and the dark glare Elyanna shoots him, you’d think Jaime was mocking her. He’s not. There’s a lot between them that they haven’t talked about, have done their very best not to acknowledge. Jaime can live with that.

"_This_." Elyanna wiggles her fingers mockingly and suddenly the ground is further away than it has any right to be.

Jaime is lowered back to the ground gently before the impossibility of hanging in the air makes him flail in an embarrassing fashion — not that it would have — and he doesn’t even stumble, which is a lot more than he could say the first time Elyanna had pulled this particular move.

His heart is hammering in his chest, but Jaime takes a deep breath and forces a smile on his lips. He’s seen crazy, seen the depths of madness and he’s felt true fear. Elyanna’s gift — call it magic, call it whatever the fuck you want — doesn't scare him. He’s seen worse.

["Who the fuck are you?" Elyanna snarls at him, face blank and eyes cold, free of any sign of even the vaguest sense of recognition.]

But that’s not something Jaime can explain to his niece, so he shrugs and answers with the next best thing.

"I didn’t care about it before, why should I do so now?"

"I couldn’t do things like that before," Elyanna admits after a few moments. "I wasn’t strong enough."

"Huh." Jaime continues to walk, lets the creaks of stone and leaves beneath his feet fill the silence for him while he sorts through his thoughts. He catches the searching glances Elyanna shoots him though. Maybe she’s looking for reassurance. He’s been by her side since she was old enough to talk, he supposes it makes sense. Not like there’s anyone else around that she could get it from. And. Maybe Robert’s death hasn’t destroyed as much as Jaime fears it has.

Not that he’s going to be the first one to touch that subject. Oh no.

"I suppose I never told you." Jaime snorts, shakes his head in amusement at himself as much as the quizzical glare he receives from his niece. "Did you know, when you were about— four or five years old, Joffrey complained to me that you were flying out of the window again?"

That halts Elyanna in her tracks with a most undignified, squeaking sound that brings a smile of genuine amusement to Jaime’s lips.

"Yes," he confirms the unvoiced question. "Joffrey stomped into my rooms and started yelling about how you kept jumping off the windows whenever he cornered you and demanding I make you stop. I think my heart stopped there for a minute." His smile falters because even after all these years Jaime still remembers the day Elyanna, little more than a babe, fell out of a window. Remembers the stark fear in Cersei’s eyes when she held her child, the stuttered rendition of Tyrion about how he’d barely reached her in time.

["I must have run faster than I thought," Jaime remembers Tyrion tell him later, once they were alone, weary and confused. "I could’ve sworn I was too far away, but it was almost like she slowed down, as though— I don’t know."

"The Seven bless you, you were fast enough," Jaime murmurs into his wine.

"Or her," Tyrion says. "The Seven may have blessed _her_."]

"I’d never run so fast as I did then, but when I reached the Tower of the Hand, there was no sign there of you. Joffrey swore up and down that the two of you had been sneaking into Lord Arryn’s office, but we found you in the garden below, playing between the rose bushes."

Jaime chuckles despite himself. He’d been furious with Joffrey for spreading lies that day and yet. When he’d asked Elyanna if she’d been in the tower, she’d sworn she hadn’t been. Jaime had wanted to believe her — there was no reason not to — but. He’d been _sure_ she was lying.

"I don’t remember that." Elyanna shakes her head, a curious frown on her face. "I don’t remember that at all."

"I’m not surprised."

When his answer earns him a long, searching look, Jaime is forced to avert his gaze for the first time since this conversation started. There’s many things he’s glad to share with Elyanna and more still that he doesn’t mind if she finds out, but. Only a few moon-turns after that day, they’d found Elyanna’s lifeless body down in the dungeons of the Red Keep, a sluggishly bleeding wound carved into her forehead. Joffrey had never again come to him to complain about any impossible behavior after that.

"You were very young," Jaime says instead and wonders how much before that incident Elyanna remembers of her childhood at all. She’d recognized them all upon waking, hadn’t seemed damaged or impaired in any way. He’d never had the courage to look deeper though and now, looking at the healthy, young girl-boy by his side, Jaime wonders what that ignorance has cost his niece.

"I suppose." Elyanna purses her lips, appearing not at all satisfied with that explanation. She twists her right hand in an odd, shaking motion that Jaime has seen more and more over the past few weeks, though he still doesn’t understand its purpose. Elyanna has insisted her wrist isn’t injured though, so he’s left it alone for now.

"Elyanna." Jaime holds her gaze, unbothered by the lightening flashing in her eyes. "I’m not upset because there’s nothing to be upset about. You’ve always been special."

She’s Cersei’s and Robert’s daughter and Jaime loves her with all his heart. She’s a princess of the realm, heiress to the Iron Throne. Elyanna would have been special no matter what, that’s never been the question. But watching her now out of the corner of his eyes, the way she walks carelessly through these woods, sure of her every step, observe the way roots seem to dance out of her way and trees lean towards her as though soaking up her presence, how flowers blossom and grass grows thicker and greener in the places she lingers for a while, Jaime can’t help but think they’ve all underestimated how special she really is.

[He hasn’t made up his mind yet whether that’s a good thing or not.]

*

It’s only when they arrive in Oldtown that Harry realizes he’s had certain expectations of this city. He can’t put into words what those expectations were, all he knows is that the reality seems to fall short somehow. Oldtown is just another city — and if his memory doesn’t deceive him, not all that different from King’s Landing. Granted it smells _far_ better, but the cobbled, crisscrossing streets and buildings made of stone remind him of the outer parts of the city.

Despite the almost flowery smell, there’s something heavy in the air that bears down on Harry from the moment he first sets foot into Oldtown. The feeling is familiar, though he can’t put his finger on why he recognizes it, so it gets pushed aside for the time being.

It’s early morning when they arrive in the city via the Roseroad, amidst traders and travelers. Harry and Jaime don’t stand out in the crowd, with their simple clothes and any indications of their true wealth or identity carefully hidden away or left behind. Even Jaime’s hair is dark brown, almost black, thanks to liberal application of ash and dirt. As for Harry, well, he doubts anyone would recognize him even if he weren’t playing a boy.

"Are you sure about this, Eli?" Jaime asks for what must be the fifth time today. Although his use of Harry’s alias is a sure sign that he’s asking for the sake of his conscience now, not because he believes Harry will change his mind.

"Yeah, Jarren." Harry grins up at him — he really is too damn small, Merlin — as wide and genuine as he can.

"They’re not gonna just let you walk into their precious halls." That’s definitely a warning.

Harry shrugs it off. "They can’t exactly keep me out." He wiggles his fingers pointedly. "Besides that’s why I have you. So you can get me out of trouble when everything goes to shit."

Then he bounces off, before Jaime can do more than scoff. As pretty as Oldtown technically is, Harry just wants to get this over with. There’s just something about this city that has him on edge and drives his instincts wild. Besides he’s already spent several months out in the wild with a man who’s some cross between favorite uncle and friendly stranger. Joffrey must be going crazy with worry by now, let’s not even start with his— mother. What an odd thought.

His sudden sense of urgency might have something to do with the nightmares he’s been suffering from the past few nights — dreams that give faces to the long list of names he’s found hidden in Grand Maester Pycelle’s chambers — but if so, Harry won’t admit it.

One last glance over his shoulder confirms that Jaime is watching him leave with sharp eyes, so Harry sends him another confident smile he doesn’t feel before they lose sight of each other in the crowd. Jaime has his own work to do. Unlike Harry, he’s been to Oldtown before and has a few acquaintance here. As delighted as Harry would be to meet those — they must be interesting company, from the way Jaime grimaced when Harry suggested accompanying him — they’ll be done faster if they separate.

Besides, Jaime has no idea what exactly Harry wants with the Citadel. At least in part because Harry himself doesn’t know. Yet. He knows what Elyanna—he found out and he has strong suspicions what Pycelle’s notes mean.

[It might even give a new dimension to Elyanna’s health issues and maybe even his baffling increase in raw magic, but there’s no point speculating about it without knowing all the facts. Which Harry will get. He’s not leaving this city without them. And it’s not like anyone can stop him from finding them.]

Harry moves through the streets at a steady, unhurried pace. Thankfully, Jaime has thought far enough ahead to give him directions, or he would’ve undoubtedly been lost in the maze of small, winding streets. As it is it takes Harry almost three hours to make it to the Citadel, a complex of buildings which are located on both sides of the river Honeywine and connected by an arching stone bridge.

[And seriously, what’s it with all these stupid, sweet-sounding names? Makes Harry twitchy just hearing them.]

The gate is flanked by two towering statues of sphinxes, made of a dark, green stone Harry doesn’t recognize. Their eagle wings are spread wide behind them, their faces — one woman, one man — expressionless, their eyes aimed watchful on the road. Harry imagines the statues come to life, as a final defense of the building perhaps, and what a breathtaking sight they would undoubtedly make. Too bad that the men living and learning behind these walls do so in the pursuit of science rather than magic, as though one would automatically exclude the other.

Brushing that thought aside for the time being, lest Harry accidentally levels the Citadel to the ground before he’s gotten his answers, he takes one deep breath and steps forward.

*

While the Citadel isn’t a private institute per se and the gate is open to the public, Harry highly doubts that anyone could just stroll inside, pass Scribe’s Hearth by and head straight towards the extensive library the Citadel is so well-known for. [Of course Harry is hardly anyone.] Keeping so much knowledge locked up in one place is just asking for trouble if you ask Harry — the Library of Alexandria, anyone? — but he supposes the lack of copy machines and duplicating charms is as much to blame for the state of things as human nature of hoarding things instead of sharing them.

Harry forces himself to take another deep breath. There’s no point in getting upset right now, no real reason even. Sure, the Citadel collects knowledge and yes, despite the two sphinxes at its entrance only men are welcome in its halls, but Harry knew that. This is hardly the time to plan a social revolution.

No one has stopped him so far from going deeper and deeper into the buildings, and Harry knows he’s got his magic to thank for that. Not a spell — too much of a risk with his poor control — but a general wish not to be noticed. It’s more useful than true invisibility in some cases, but also tiring to keep up.

Harry wipes a hand over his forehead.

The long hallways are illuminated by torches that cast flickering lights and shadows on the unadorned walls. His steps echo loudly from the walls and his breathing sounds unnaturally harsh in the quiet. Harry almost wishes someone had stopped him by now. It would make sense. It would give him an explanation for this feeling of dread, building up in his stomach, nervously dancing along his nerves.

His hands are shaking.

Harry stares down in surprise because his hands are really shaking. That’s— odd. Wandless or not, with all the practice he’s had, Harry knows he can keep the notice-me-not charm up for hours, possibly even days — Jaime got tired of feeling like he lost Elyanna again eventually — without trouble. This is worrisome.

Actually, never mind that. Harry stares in abstract fascination at the drop of blood on his left hand. Lifts his fingers for closer inspection. Yes, definitely blood. And— yes, definitely from his nose. There’s also the fact that breathing feels harder than it should. And was it always this damn hot in here?

_What by Merlin and Morgana’s underwear is going on here?_

All panic aside, Harry has no wish to keel over dead after he’s finally started to feel like himself again. So he does the logical thing: turn on his heels and stalk back towards the entrance.

It figures that the one time in his life where Harry opts for a tactical retreat, he walks straight into a stranger he hasn’t even heard coming up. The collision probably isn’t all that hard, but with the way the world is spinning around Harry it’s no wonder he loses his footing. Raising his head, Harry blinks up at the man, determinedly ignoring the rushing sound in his ears.

It’s an older man, wearing a simple cloak and a maester’s chain. Wonderful. He’s staring down at Harry in what might be puzzlement. He’s also talking.

Harry doesn’t hear a word he’s saying. He tries to focus, to concentrate, but blood is rushing in his ears, electricity is racing down his arms and Harry _can’t fucking hear_.

What happens next isn’t something Harry will never be proud of, but he can’t focus, keeping hold of a fully-formed thought is far more work than it should be and— someone is attacking him, pushing him down, forcing him into the ground and Harry’s fought of Voldemort’s imperius, he’s not gonna stand for this bullshit either. There’s no rational plan or strategy behind it, just instinct. To defend. To fight.

Because Harry doesn’t understand and he needs to. He’s gasping for air now, blinking rapidly against the tears in his eyes and the maester is kneeling down by his side, still talking maybe, worried brown eyes on Harry and he needs to—

"_Legilimens_!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I swear I didn't intend to end this chapter with another cliffhanger. I was actually planning to get the whole maester-issue resolved, but then I got distracted trying to do Harrylanna's identity crisis justice, so that's gonna take place in the next chapter. 
> 
> For now, I hope you all enjoy the return of magic as an active part in this fic [more explanations regarding it will come] and I also hope you'll forgive me the sprinkles of OP!Harry in this chapter. Harry is neither godlike nor unbeatable, but it may appear that way through next ten or so chapters. All I ask is that you bear with me and trust that I know what I'm doing regarding his increased power. Besides Harrylanna's been forced into physical and magical helplessness for the past twenty chapters, they're allowed to catch a break for once, right? *side-eyes that last scene* oh, right... whoops.
> 
> Compared to the last chapters, not much happened in this one, but I wanted to dedicate at least one chapter to the Elyanna/Harry identity issues before they probably become sidelined due to bigger problems for all characters. But there's a definite shift/change in the voice of their character's POV in this chapter and I think that deserved to be acknowledged. I hope you enjoyed it anyways and if you have the time please let me know what you think in a comment! Have a wonderful week, everyone, and thank you so much for reading!
> 
> [Also no promises but we might get our first Robb's POV in the next chapter. Maybe.]


	22. part ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "_There is such a thing as power too great, too tempting to be held by men, for they cannot afford to pay its price._"

_296 AC_

_He’s gasping for air now, blinking rapidly against the tears in his eyes and the maester is kneeling down by his side, still talking maybe, worried brown eyes on Harry and he needs to—_

_"Legilimens!"_

*

Harry Potter is many things. The Boy-Who-Lived, the Man-Who-Conquered, the savior, the rising Dark Lord, the monster, the cheat. One thing he isn’t, has never been and — so far as Snape’s judgement can be trusted — never will be is a master of the mind arts.

[It’s Hermione, _of course_ it’s Hermione, who postulates that Harry’s inability to master occlumency may be a side-effect of the horcrux he’s carried most of his life.

_You spent all your life caging it, suppressing it and containing it_, she’d argued passionately over fire-whiskey one night, a couple of months after the horror of the war, when the world seemed bright and filled with endless possibilities. _You trained yourself to keep things, even parts of yourself, in instead of keeping other people out_.]

Despite that, Hermione had done her best to help Harry master the craft. The war may have been over, but with its end Harry had just as many reasons to want to keep his own thoughts secure as ever.

Their success had been limited, to say the least. Limited to exactly one branch of the mind arts, in fact. Practice had proven to them all that while Harry made little protest in protecting his own mind, he does have an aptitude for legilimency.

Unlike clearing your mind, breaking through shields, walls and whatever other defense mechanisms comes naturally to Harry. Last he checked — which was against Neville’s frankly terrifying protections — Harry has a knack for discovering and exploiting weak spots in a person’s mental defenses. Granted, he’d miles away from Snape’s finesse or Dumbledore’s subtlety, but there’s one thing Harry has in spades that in the hands of a skilled practitioner of the mind arts is as deadly a weapon as Gryffindor’s sword: will power.

This nameless maester — Fergus Ternaz, third son of a sailor and merchant, joined the Citadel at fourteen — is a well-educated man with no knowledge of the mind arts and nothing but the instinctual defenses any human being capable of rational thought can raise. Harry doesn’t bother with finesse, is in no state of mind for careful maneuvers, for all that it would have been kinder on Ternaz’s mental health. Harry tears straight through the feeble defenses like a raging bull running head-first through a paper wall. It rips, tears, shatters easily, shards and broken wood falling everywhere, and though they are largely a product of his imagination that makes them as real as anything in this mental landscape. The widening spasms beneath Harry’s feet leave no doubt of his successful entrance or the wounds such a violation will leave behind.

[Harry carries his own scars from Snape’s ruthless teaching methods to this day, as real and lasting as the physical damage the various battles and trials of his life have left him with. Can feel them sometimes, the thick, gnarled tissue that has grown where smooth skin used to be. Rough to touch and twice as hard to break open. Makes navigating Harry’s mental scape a pain in the ass — for Harry as much as for any unwelcome intruder.

It has its uses, sometimes. Harry can always pick the talented legilimens out of a crowd because few can resist the temptation to dip into the Chosen One’s head. And the way they recoil at what they find there is a dead giveaway.]

Harry has just enough time to feel vaguely bad about his rough entrance before he’s through the wall and— _floats_. It’s the best description he’s come up with so far, though it too inevitably falls short of encapsulating the odd experience of moving through another person’s mind. There’s a weightlessness to it because as the intruder you are just about the only thing there that _isn’t_ real. You can wound, injure, even kill, but you can’t truly touch or move anything.

This is not your mind and thus you have no control save the one you trick the other into believing you have. Because here, at the core of the one whose mind you’re dissecting, what _they_ believe is the only thing that matters. That’s why you can’t steal, suppress or pull forth the memories or knowledge you seek. You make it come to you instead.

Harry closes his eyes — uselessly, of course, for he has no eyes here and as many as he wishes for, but some habits are hard to shake — and focuses on the list of names they found in Pycelle’s chamber. That intangible sense of unease he associates with the Citadel that Elyanna could never put a finger on. Maester Colmar’s warning. The sick, burning sensation in his gut that tells Harry his suspicions are spot on.

[Harry, after all, is well-acquainted with the types of reaction magic can receives. The negative reactions in particular.]

*

_A black candle burns_.

_*_

_Shock._

*

_"Is it not kinder to spare them a joyless existence trapped in a world that has no place for them?" Grand Maester Aurion asks._

_It’s not the kind of question that requests anything but an affirmative response. Fergus doesn’t fully agree, but he’s only been studying at the Citadel for little over two years and there’s so much he doesn’t know yet. Surely he will learn in time. Grand Maester Aurion has his reasons, as he always does._

_"Of course, Grand Maester," he murmurs and the approval in the old Grand Maester’s eyes is warmer than the summer’s sun._

*

_Elation._

*

_"The great dragons in all honor, they were little more than beasts barely held back by the strongest of the Targaryans. And at what cost? Half of them went mad with it, not that any maester would dare put it like that. But the scrolls speak for themselves. Dragons are not meant to be tamed, nor hold bonds of loyalty to any or all humans. Even the Targaryans couldn’t achieve that, wouldn’t have achieved that, not without the sort of force that brought ruin to Old Valyria."_

_"But… if the ways of controlling a dragon are known, why have the dragons been lost for so many years?" One of Fergus’ brother’s asks._

_He almost sighs, but restrains himself. It’s not his brother’s fault, he’s young still, full of naivety and still trapped in the glorious stories of the House Targaryen. Still. King Aerys burned a maester alive mere weeks ago, how can he not _ ** _see_ ** _—_

_"There is such a thing as power too great, too tempting to be held by men, for they cannot afford to pay its price."_

*

** _Fear._ **

*

_"I do not understand these runes," Fergus murmurs and doesn’t quite manage to hide the awe the sight awakens in him. For even in the weak light of his torch he can guess at moons and years the work before him must have taken._

_The entire catacomb, its ground, its walls, its ceiling are covered in symbols and letter of no language Fergus has ever seen. Some are larger than two men put on top of each other, others smaller than Fergus’ smallest fingernail. They have been painstakingly painted, scorched, carved into stone, marble and wood. Cover every surface, leave no room for any additions. An intricate web of pieces small and large, coming together to form one of the most compelling views Fergus has been blessed to see in his life._

_"No one does," fellow Maester Renmouse says and raises his own torch, allows Fergus a glimpse further down the narrow corridor. Every surface the light touches is covered in more runes._

_"There is no way these symbols hold no meaning."_

_They are a maester’s life’s work, maybe the life’s work of a century of them. Fergus cannot imagine the amount of knowledge and understanding it must have taken, nor that no one thought to write it down._

_"Indeed there is not." Renmouse’s dark eyes glint in the darkness. "But fire has a way of consuming knowledge that few other forces hold. Here, hold this."_

_He hands Fergus his torch, gestures for him to step back. Swings the heavy, reinforced door close with a strained gasp._

_"Your curiosity honors you, but it will do you little good in these endeavors. Much of what was known of magic has been taken or lost, through chance and intent." Renmouse locks the door — all seven locks of them. "You will not find answers in this nor any other forgotten place. Only questions and the remains of answers the Citadel once used to hold. I applaud your interest. Too many of our order forsake the magic found in this world as though ignorance alone would unmake it. But this, I fear, is a mystery all our scrolls and dedication may not solve."_

_"Perhaps we are not meant to solve it," Fergus comments and wonders why he feels sincerely regretful at that thought._

*

_A black candle burns._

*

Harry jerks back violently on unsteady limbs. Pulls himself up against the wall somehow. The rough stone cuts his skin, but the pain is a welcome one. Grounding. For the single second it lasts before Harry’s blood feels like liquid fire, like pure lightening barely contained in his veins—

With a soundless scream, Harry wrenches his hand away from the stone.

He blinks against the darkness that threatens to swallow him. Stares at the blurred shape of Fergus Ternaz. It’s barely a conscious thought, little more than survival instinct born and honed over years spent on the run from governments far better organized than this world could hope to offer.

"_Obliviate_."

Harry is running before the word has fully left his dry lips. He doesn’t bother to watch the memory charm take hold. Doesn’t bother to try and force himself deeper into the chambers of the Citadel. No answer is worth the risk.

Nor is it necessary. Harry already knows everything he needs to.

[How could he _miss_ this?]

*

That night, a young acolyte races through the long-winded corridors of the Citadel. "The glass candles!" he gasps, eyes wide with the wonder of those too young to know better. "Grand Maester Orson! The glass candles are burning!"

*

Cersei has been accused of many things in her life, but stupidity has never been one of them. [More than that, though, more than anything else, Cersei knows her children.]

Grief is a curious thing, capable of both drawing time out into utter meaninglessness and letting it rush past you in the blink of an eye. Cersei spends days and weeks after that first terrible night at Myrcella’s and Gwyneth’s bedside, unwilling to let her children out of her sight for a moment longer than necessary.

If at all possible Cersei would have done much the same with her oldest son. But Joffrey is not just her child, he is the heir to the Iron Throne. And though he insists not to take the crown until his fourteenth birthday, he is as good as King. A king has many obligations, soothing his mother’s worries not chief among them, and as much as it breaks her heart, Cersei leaves him to it.

[She could join him, as Queen Mother and ruler in his stead, Cersei is more welcome in the small council meetings Joffrey attends than she ever would have been while Robert was alive. But the audiences and council meetings are no place for her younger daughters and Cersei cannot bear to be parted from them just yet.

Joffrey, at least, has been taught to fight by the most talented swords man and the only one Cersei has ever trusted. Her traitorous fingers clench, but she forces herself to smooth out the wrinkles in her long sleeve. This is not the time to think about— him.

And Joffrey, he has the Kingsguard and the Hound guarding him as well. It’s not enough — Cersei doubts there’s a force in this world that she would trust the safety of her children with — but it will have to suffice for the time being.]

As much as it hurts to witness, these past moons have truly transformed Joffrey into the man Cersei has always hoped — but never dared to believe — he could become. As his mother, she is not blind to the coldness in his eye, the lack of any genuine amusement where he used to laugh and smirk. But.

Joffrey has proven himself so much stronger than even Cersei had expected him to be. In the wake of his beloved sister’s loss, dearly respected his father’s and uncle’s deaths, Joffrey has stood tall and weathered the storm with a cutting tongue Cersei is willing to take full credit for and a steadiness she envies. Elyanna would be proud to see him now, more of a king than the waste of a man he called his father ever was despite his missing crown.

The thought cuts through Cersei like a knife and though three moons have passed since the disappearance of her eldest daughter, the blade has lost none of its sharp edges.

"Mother! Mother!" Myrcella’s sweet voice distracts Cersei from the ever darker paths her mind has taken. Gywneth is by her side, running in circles around her sister, laughing loudly. Her bright joy does more to soothe Cersei’s anguish than all the hollow comfort offered by the seven realms.

Out of all of them, Gwyneth has been the least shaken by the heavy losses their family has suffered. Most days, that is a thing to be grateful for. A blessing of the Seven — the least Cersei’s children are owed after everything the Gods have let them suffered through.

["The Royal children are strong, your Grace," Pycelle simpers when Myrcella refuses her meal for the fourth time.

Cersei grits her teeth and forces herself to not have the man killed on the spot for his utter uselessness. She should’ve done that years ago, when the oh so famed Grand Maester hadn’t been able to give her eldest more than a few stomach soothing herbs to linder her sickness. Unfortunately Cersei had chosen reason and mercy over her own desires back then and now she has to endure the consequences of her weakness.

At least this is a failure she can make use of.

Cersei smiles, wide and with gleaming teeth. "Should anything happen to one of my children from here on out, should they so much as shed a tear, _I will have you torn apart by wild animals_," she says in her most pleasant voice. Watching Pycelle pale is as satisfying as she thought it would be. "Have I made myself clear?"

"Ah— Quite clear indeed, your Grace."]

"What is it, my sweet?" Cersei asks and kneels down when Myrcella reaches her side.

Gwyneth continues her circles around them, giggling madly, and for once the smile on Cersei’s lips comes naturally.

"Look mother, I made you a crown!" Myrcella proudly presents her with a carefully woven flower crown.

"Thank you, my love," Cersei murmurs. "It’s beautiful."

The kind words make Myrcella glow with a smile that would shame the sun, though her next words dim some of her light. "Elyanna taught me how to braid them. She said a flower crown is the most precious crown anyone could hope to bear."

[Out of all her children, Myrcella has taken Elyanna’s loss the hardest. In some ways, this is not unexpected. Myrcella is kind and genuine in spite of Cersei’s best attempts to prepare her for the many tricks and pitfalls court life will hold for her. For all that she adores her daughter’s sweet nature, it has left her woefully unprepared for the cruelty of the world.

In other ways, well. In other ways, it’s been the first thing that has tipped Cersei off.]

"That sounds like her," Cersei manages with only a slight catch in her voice.

It does. Elyanna was never as cruel as Joffrey. [Was never as kind as Myrcella either. But then Cersei couldn’t allow her to be, could she? Her eldest could not be sweet and lovely, not if she was to have any chance at surviving the legacy Robert had so carelessly bestowed upon her on her name day. Elyanna could not be soft and maybe that is why Cersei allows Myrcella her dreams and beliefs. Is glad to see it in her even.] But Elyanna, for all her perceptiveness and vicious cleverness when prompted, was _good_.

_Is_ good.

Hidden inside the wide sleeves of her black mourning dress, Cersei clenches her left hand into a fist. No, she will not listen to whispers, be they from commoners or the king’s _most trusted_ advisor. Elyanna is not dead. She cannot be.

Cersei refuses to believe it. She refuses to believe her own son had his beloved sister murdered in her chambers.

[Because Cersei knows her children. She was there when Joffrey, a green boy of no more than nine or ten, satat his sister’s sickbed for days upon days. Barely slept, barely ate. Wasted away, hollow-eyed, a bruising grip around Elyanna’s wrist as though determination alone would keep her with him.

She feared the loss of her daughter. She feared losing two children in one stroke.

Cersei has carried that fear with her through the last few years and like so many others it hasn’t lost any of its potency. As a mother it is her right to fear her children’s death. As Joffrey’s mother, Cersei feared what would become of her son, should he lose his sister. She’d known, even back then, that Elyanna’s death would break him.

And for all that they do not know her fate, Cersei knows her son. Oh, he is furious. All but burning with rage even. But for all his cold words and trembling hands, Joffrey hasn’t _shattered_. And Elyanna’s loss would do nothing less.]

"Here, Mother," Gwyneth says softly, finally coming to a halt at Cersei’s side. Her previous easy joy has been replaced by a thoughtful frown. "I got you more flowers to make you smile."

Cersei looks down at her perfect youngest daughter and has to close her eyes against the tears that threaten to fall and thinks with bitter satisfaction that all her children are too smart for their own goods. But she also smiles because she can do nothing less.

*

_Fresh snow crunches barely audible beneath his feet. His steps are slow, patient, but sure. He’s walked this path before, not long ago. His trace still lingers, were a more dangerous hunter to pay attention, but there is little here more dangerous than he is._

_His ears twitch when he hears it. The sound he’s been waiting for, searching for this entire time. He increases his pace. The snow muffles the sound, covers twigs and leaves that might have given him away earlier — that that it would’ve changed anything. He stalks closer, steady and eager, eyes fixed on his prey._

_They appear oblivious of his presence still, despite his continued approach. Closer. Closer. Clos—_

Robb Stark startles awake with a violent twitch. Which is an improvement over the last few times, when he couldn’t always muffle his shouts in time.

With a half sign, half groan Robb lets himself fall back onto the bed. Stares at the dark ceiling above him without seeing a damn thing.

_Just a stupid dream_, he tells himself half-heartedly and pretends he can’t still taste the blood on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look. It only took me, what, a month and a half to write this chapter? I'm sorry if it's rough, I'm trying to find my way back into this story after leaving it alone for so long. There's various reasons why I dropped it, but the biggest one was that my writing time is fairly limited at the moment and a couple of non-corona related things happened that made me disinclined to write anything I wasn't in the mood for.  
Nevertheless, I'll try to not leave you hanging this long again. You may have to accept shorter chapters in exchange for that, I'm afraid. But at least I finally gave you a tiny bit of Robb. That's a start, right? *subtly creeps towards the door*  
Also we've gotten further insights on the maesters and Harry's odd reactions, which Harry will finally give us some clear context/answers to in the next chapter. And Cersei isn't half as obvious as Joffrey seems to think, which I'm sure won't cause any trouble _at all_. [Hey, I can't fix all the idiocy, plots and miscommunication, okay.]  
So yeah, I hope you enjoyed the read despite the long wait and that you're all safe and healthy in the current situation. If you've got the time, please let me know what you think in a comment!


	23. part iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You can’t keep the little fury off the board forever, ’s all I’m saying."

_296 AC_

"Eli? Eli, we have a proble— What in the Seven happened to you?"

Harry blinks fuzzily up into the vague direction of the door that Jaime’s already pulling shut. He’s not entirely sure how he made it back to the small room Jaime had gotten them upon their arrival in Oldtown, but he’s always been lucky. If you count regular near death experiences lucky, that is. Most of his walk back is one long, drawn out haze. It’s a miracle no one robbed him. Then again, his magic, already rubbed raw by the torment it’s been put through today, might have taken offense to that. So it’s probably less miracle and more self-preservation on part of the robbers and thieves.

Staring up at Jamie’s blurry face, the edges highlighted by concern, brings back memories of better days. [Mrs. Weasley, tutting and scolding while she cleans a cut on his forehead with a sharp tap of her wand. Hermione’s hand on his arm, holding the torn skin in place so that Hannah can work her magic. Mother, handing her another cup of weird-smelling tea, insisting it will help soothe her mind to sleep. Joffrey, smiling at her with bright eyes—] Or what amounts to better days in the life and — apparently — afterlife of Harry James Potter.

"Whaha?" Harry tries to ask, but his tongue refuses cooperation. Stumbles over the first syllable like a drunken fool falling down the stairs of the tavern above which they’re staying. Wonderful. That’s exactly the put-together impression Harry’s been aiming for.

In response, the furrow on Jaime’s forehead deepens. He’s a worrier, as Harry’s had ample time to discover over the past weeks. What Harry remembers of his childhood only confirms that.

"You’re bleeding!"

Harry swipes a finger underneath his nose, which does indeed come back wet and sticky with blood. Just perfect.

"I’m fine." Harry grimaces. "Or I will be."

The face Jaime pulls at that statement conveys a truly impressive level of exasperation. "Your definition of fine has killed lesser men."

"A good thing there’s nothing lesser about me then," Harry quips drily, accepts the handkerchief Jaime hands him to clean his face. Sighs when the expectant stare doesn’t lessen one iota in its intensity. Most of his concentration is needed to keep his hand from trembling, he really doesn’t want to get into a discussion of his health status with Jaime right now. "What?"

"Don’t play games, Eli." The contrast between his stern voice and gentle touch as Jaime leads her towards the thin bedroll almost gives Harry whiplash. Although that might just be the lingering dizziness. "You’ve been getting better these last weeks. I leave you alone for a single morning and now you look like you’re about to greet the Stranger at the door. What happened?"

His free hand, the one that doesn’t carefully card through Harry’s sweat-soaked hair, is already resting on his sword and for one absurd moment Harry wonders how many maesters one of the best sword fighters in Westeros could kill before someone would strike him down.

_I want them to suffer. I want them to look at me, to see me, and realize that for all their fear of magic, they haven’t feared it enough. I want them to _**_pay_**.

But even as he contemplates the option, Harry knows it’s neither feasible nor practical. Or necessary, if he’s entirely honest with himself. So Harry consciously takes a mental step back from the rage, the rawness itching underneath his skin. Focuses instead on sinking down onto the bed instead and obediently sips on the water flask Jaime offers him. The water tastes stale, but Harry ends up gulping down half of it before he realizes he’s drinking.

_Fuck. I must be worse off than I feel._

"Thank you."

Not that said display will have done anything to ease Jaime’s worries, but one problem at a time. Harry already has trouble keeping track of them all as it is, and there’s only so long he can keep using the whole identity issue as an excuse before it starts to ring false.

"_Eli_," Jaime says lowly, and Harry finds himself swallowing hard and avoiding the man’s heavy gaze instinctively.

"Fine!" Harry sighs, exasperated or annoyed, it hardly makes a difference. Bites his lip hard as he tries to get a semblance of order into his scrambled thoughts. He honestly doesn’t know where to start. How to even begin to explain it, everything, when it’s so, so— _bloody_. _fucking_. **_frustrating_**.

"Alright. At first, everything went according to plan. I got through the gate and past Scribe’s Hearth easily enough — by the way, those hallways could give the Red Keep a run for their gold. I’m pretty sure I passed at least seven hidden passages, and that’s just the ones I spotted…right. Back to the point." Harry smacks his lips. He still feels a little dried out, parched even, but that’s not unexpected, considering.

"I was looking for their library — one of them at least, I’m sure they have more — when I noticed it. I started to feel _wrong _somehow. Looking back, the symptoms are pretty straight-forward: I got hot and cold showers, I felt tired and thirsty, my mind and body became sluggish, it’s a classic power drain."

"A power drain?" Jaime repeats, testing the word out. Like he’s not one hundred percent sure what to make of it, but wants to stab a few maesters in the throat all the same.

Harry can sympathize.

"It sucks the magic right out of you," Harry says in a flat voice. There’s no softening that blow, no way to make it sound less or even half as horrifying as it truly is. There’s nothing that can convey the true depravity of such a crime, not to someone who doesn’t feel magic humming in his veins. "Like a gaping, invisible wound that grows a little with every passing day, feeding on your life force as it does so. It moves slow and steady, draws on your energy, your very will to live until nothing but a hollowed shell remains."

Harry takes a deep breath. Forces himself to meet Jaime’s wide eyes. "It’s a terrible thing to do to anyone. If applied correctly, such a drain is insidious. You won’t notice its effects until it’s far too late. Won’t realize anything is wrong as the broad river of your magic turns into a narrow brook and finally justa few last drops until those too are gone. And it doesn’t— it doesn’t stop at our magic."

"You sound like you know quite well of what you speak." Jaime’s question is framed as a statement, but the suspicion is clear as day in his eyes. Of course, Jaime’s always been intelligent. Not as clever and book-smart as Tyrion perhaps, but intuitive and witty nonetheless.

Harry huffs a breath of air, filled with amusement he doesn’t feel, and wonders briefly if it would be too much to hope for a stupid family, should he find himself reborn again at some point. There always seem to be so many stupid people in the world, surely his chances can’t be that bad?

"You could say that."

[Contrary to Harry’s initial assumptions — not to mention his impression of the average witch and wizard’s common sense — the Ministry of Magic had not simply decided one day to entrust a foul race of creatures that betrayed them whenever it was convenient with the imprisonment and containment of the worst, most dangerous members of its society. Azkaban, as Hermione had so kindly found out when Harry almost got _accidentally_ convicted due to procedural errors for the second time, had earned its terrible reputation long before the dementors had been confined to the island.

Because that’s the trouble with magical people: Traditional prisons don’t work. You can’t just take their wands to render them helpless — that only works when you’re the one attacking them and you are in possession of a wand. And even then it won’t always be enough, as proven by Lily Potter.

You cannot disarm a witch any more than you can disarm a martial artist because their primarily weapon is not one that can be taken off their hands.

Naturally that meant that witches and wizards all over the world had spent a considerable amount of time, resources and genius inventions on figuring out how to take a person’s magic away — or dampen it, at least. Naturally.

"I think that’s why they fear muggles so much," Hermione confessed one night, when Ron, Ginny and Neville had long excused themselves and the firelight had dimmed, cast her face in shadows. "They fear they would find a way to steal magic because turns out you can take someone’s magic. They’ve already proven it possible, even if no one dares to speak of it. What’s to say you need magic to accomplish such a feat, given time and incentive?"

You can’t steal magic, not really, because it’s not something that can be taken, but you can cut off a person’s access to it. Or — in the case of Azkaban and countless other prisons around the world — you can _use_ it. To fuel the very wards that keep its prisoners contained.

So yes, the Ministry put a lot more thought behind Azkaban than Harry would’ve given them credit for. Of course then they handed the entire island — covered in wards and rituals older than Hogwarts, with living prisoners to fuel the entire infrastructure — over to a race they knew nothing about, save that they feed on happiness and like to suck out a human’s soul. Because there’s no way that could go wrong _at all_.

Harry’s kind of glad he got himself killed before that shit-show inevitably blows up in everyone’s faces.]

It takes Harry conscious effort to shove those thoughts away, down into the furthest, dustiest corner of his mind. To return his attention to the present instead and with it Jaime, who is still waiting for an explanation and growing more tense with every passing second.

"When done right, a curse like this can run its course for years, centuries even. It can be placed on heirlooms, rooms, entire buildings or a living person, though that last one is rare, if only because the curse ceases to exist once the person dies. But if it’s tied to a place instead — every person that feeds magic into it strengthens the curse further. And—" Harry shakes his head with a bitter smile that slides off his lips like oil off a raincoat, "they don’t kill immediately. One can live for years, decades under a power drain, depending on one’s health, physical and magical strength. That’s why it’s so hard to pick up on them, to recognize the effects on yourself or others. Because it’s a slow, steady decline. You start to feel less energized first. To sleep more and move less. You stop gaining weight, no matter how much you eat, you just become slimmer and slimmer. You lose your breath. Your muscles lose their strength. Your hair thins and eyesight worsens. Until one day you’ll fall asleep and just never wake up."

As Harry continues his speech his voice deepens and grows harsher, unable to retain its evenness in the face of everything he— _Elyanna_ suffered. From the way Jaime is paling, he too has made the connection.

Harry barks out a humorless laugh and rubs viciously at the drying blood under his nose. "I thought it was poison." And Merlin, when has that option become the preferable one? "I was so sure Pycelle was poisoning me—"

"You _what_?!"

Harry flinches at Jaime’s startled exclamation. Frowns as he tries to remember what, exactly, he’d told the man about his plans at the Citadel, only to come up empty.

"Uhm… oops?" He offers hesitantly when Jaime’s shock takes a very explicit turn towards brightly cackling fury.

"Pycelle poisoned you?" Jaime repeats in a very low, very reasonable tone of voice that may or may not make Harry miss his beloved invisibility cloak _fiercely_.

"No, he didn’t. At least, I don’t have any evidence and I don’t think it’s likely anymore. I wasn’t even on the list, so I suppose that never made much sense—"

"Hold on." Jaime lifts a hand — the other one’s busy pinching the bridge of his nose in what might be either severe exasperation or the build-up to a small heart-attack — as though he’s planning to physically shove Harry’s words back into his mouth if he doesn’t stop talking right now. There’s a long moment of silence while Harry tries not to fidget and Jaime gathers his bearings, before he motions for Harry to continue. "Alright, let’s try this again. You thought Grand Maester Pycelle was poisoning you. That’s why Joffrey insisted you leave, isn’t it?"

Well. Harry’s about 87 percent sure it was him doing the insisting, not Joffrey, but he’s spent a lot of time ignoring everything that happened that night — including the maelstrom of confusing emotions Robert Baratheon’s dead body evokes in him — he’s not about to break the habit now.

"I wasn’t getting any better." Harry shrugs. "I was dying. You knew it, Joffrey knew it, Mother knew it, _everyone_ knew it. I think we all know I have nothing to lose."

"_Had_," Jaime snaps. "You _had_ nothing to lose— _possibly_. Ely— Eli. You’re healthier than I’ve ever seen you. You have a lot to lose, not the least of which being me once your mother finds out I let you walk into the Citadel to search for evidence that one of their own has been plotting to kill you!"

That…is indeed a fair point and definitely sounds like something Cersei Lannister would do.

"They weren’t though," Harry points out like it will make a difference. "The Citadel, I mean. I thought they must be behind it, it was the only thing that made sense. I figured, there’s no one else — except for the Faith maybe — that collects knowledge like the maesters do and Pycelle’s never made a secret of his opinions on magic. When I searched his chambers, I found a list of names, almost all of them children that died within weeks of their birth. And— most of those names, they were of the same families, but there were too many for it to be about a family feud or anything of the likes. And it seemed so obvious, you know, how easy it would be for a trusted maester to get rid off an unwanted offspring. Children die of fever all the time, no one would think to question it."

Maybe Harry isn’t doing too good a job of explaining himself — Jaime’s definitely looking at him like he’s lost his mind — but it’s hard to put it in a way that’ll make sense to the man. To Harry too. Elyanna’s conviction had been so strong, he’d never thought to question it. Why would he? It had made sense.

[How can you trust an order that collects and hides all knowledges behind thick walls, to be studied only by those they choose to grant access? Hermione would be _appalled_. Then she would organize a revolution.]

"So you thought there was a grand conspiracy targeting you and anyone else with a gift for magic. And you decided to seek out those very conspirators to find answers." The words are dryer than dust. Maybe Jaime thinks if he keeps all emotion out of his voice, the explanation will sound more reasonable. Somehow Harry doesn’t think it’s working. Still. The poor man deserves an honest answer.

"Essentially yes." After all, it’s a lot easier to find answers when you’ve got magic on your side and are going up against muggles. "I was wrong though."

Wrong doesn’t even begin to cover it. Harry was blind, he was stupid, and he fell for the same damn trick a second time. There’s no excuse for that level of idiocy. It’s the kind of error people usually don’t survive to learn from.

Jaime nods. He’s utterly focused, Harry can see it in his eyes. The way he’s analyzing the situation, looking for enemies and exit strategies, discarding plans and drawing up new ones. Jaime’s a survivor. Why the hell hadn’t Elyanna approached him earlier?

Oh, right. Because there was Mother to consider. Jaime would and will do many things for his niece, but Harry doubts he’s capable of keeping a secret from his twin sister.

"So there’s no great conspiracy to kill off magic then."

"Oh, no," Harry shakes his head wildly, tragically amused by the very suggestion. "There absolutely is. I was right about all of it. The maesters are strategically killing children with a higher potential for a magical heritage. They might even arrange for the occasional happy accident for all I know."

"You—"

"I was right about the conspiracy, I was just never a target." Harry tries for a grin, that comes out as more of an awkward grimace. Shrugs at the utterly incredulous expression on Jaime’s face. "Turns out the Citadel never considered the offspring of a Lannister — and Royal family for that matter — a viable target. I can’t rule out that they might have wanted me dead, but if so I wasn’t important enough to warrant an assassination."

And isn’t that Westeros’ saddest truth? To be a direct heir to the Iron Throne and still be considered of no import because of the body Harry’s been born into. The _female_ body.

Jaime, meanwhile, looks like he’s developing an impressive, Harry-shaped headache. Coupled with a strong desire for a drink. Or several. Harry doesn’t judge. He tends to have that effect on people.

"So what was it then?" Jaime asks after a few moments with more sharpness than Harry is comfortable with. "If the Citadel that is apparently conspiring against the magical forces that supposedly left this world hasn’t been trying to kill you, who _is_?"

[The whole seven kingdoms know that Cersei Lannister loves her children. Elyanna has grown up secure of that love and Harry — who grew up with Lily Potter’s sacrifice in his veins — recognizes it well.

Harry remembers the whispers from servants and court ladies alike. They talk about a mother’s love, eerily reminiscent of the fancy stories Albus Dumbledore used to spin, half a lifetime ago. As though this is somehow the one trait that defines the queen — the only one worth remembering. It renders them blind to the devotion in Jaime’s gaze. Makes them forget the fierceness in Tyrion’s eyes. Excuse Joffrey’s willingness to burn the world down around him before he’ll let anyone touch his family. Giggle and sigh behind closed doors about the man King Robert used to be and the girl he loved so deeply, her loss broke him beyond repair.

Elyanna Baratheon’s family can be faulted for many vices, but a lack of love has never been one of them.

And. There are days when Harry wonders how, out of all the possibilities in Westeros and beyond, he could’ve been born to the unholy union of Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister. Most days, though, he wonders how it could’ve been anyone else.]

_Straight to the point then, huh? Alright, I guess. Here goes nothing._

"Not who. That’s precisely the problem." Is irony supposed to taste this bitter all the way down?

"Elyanna." Jaime reaches out, takes both of Harry’s hands into his own. His hands are calloused, his skin rough and so warm. "Tell me. Tell me what’s wrong and I’ll fix it. Tell me who cursed you and fuck magic, I will _end them_."

Harry swallows hard, gaze trapped in Jaime’s burning own. [The last time someone looked at Harry like this, it led to their death.]

"You _can’t_," he whispers and wishes his stupid voice would pull itself together and stop shaking. "I want to tell you it’s the Citadel because what they’ve done is unforgivable and they deserve it. But it’s not as simple as putting poison in my tea. That power drain I told you about? It would explain my symptoms, but there’s no way a learned man of the Citadel could’ve put it on me. They lack the knowledge, the finesse and the magic to pull it off. Power drains are higher magic. Complex, demanding and cost-intensive. Besides there’s no way anyone put it on _me_ or its effects wouldn’t have faded when we first left King’s Landing. And it certainly wouldn’t have come back when I entered the Citadel."

"The Citadel." Jaime’s grip tightens. "The _Red Keep_. If it’s not bound to _you_ it has to be—"

"The buildings themselves," Harry finishes because it’s the only thing that makes sense. "You told me you found me passed out in the lower levels of the Keep once, didn’t you? And I always avoided the dungeons because they felt wrong. I suspect that’s where the anchor point is."

"So they used a complicated magical ritual instead of poison. Sounds like a very roundabout way of conspiring to murder the royal princess to me. I’m sure we can hang a couple of hundreds maesters for that alone."

Harry would laugh, but nothing in the grimness of Jaime’s tone gives off the impression that he’s joking.

"I know you wish to protect me and I love you for that," Harry says instead and though he half expects the words to sound false, they feel more natural than anything else he’s confessed thus far. "But I don’t think the Citadel is behind this, much as I’m sure some of them would have rejoiced at the chance."

"What does it matter?" Jaime’s question holds such a genuine confusion that it holds Harry up short.

"What do you mean? Of course it matters!" he exclaims, although he’s not sure he could put into words why he feels that way.

"Why?" Jaime raises his eyebrows, pushes a few strands of hair out of his face. It’s been growing out ever since they’ve left King’s Landing. "If the Citadel wants to stifle magic, sooner or later they will become our enemies. Besides someone had to evoke this magic. Curses don’t come out of nowhere. They don’t occur naturally without human thought and intention to shape and form them. You said so yourself."

Harry blinks. "You were listening?"

"Wha— Of course I was listening! We were surrounded by squirrels, leafs and an ill-tempered horse and of those you were the only one with something interesting to say!"

Fair point. Harry doesn’t know why it surprises him so much. Maybe it’s because back then he wasn’t really trying to explain anything to Jaime. He was just rambling, filling the endless silence between them with as many words as possible. As well as, you know. Keep Jaime informed enough that he wouldn’t freak out the next time Harry did something impossible.

"Huh. Alright." Harry bites his lip, reminds himself to concentrate. Now isn’t the time to get lost in magical theory, not when Jaime has made a very good point. One Harry hasn’t had time to consider yet, not fully anyway.

The Citadel may be fearful of magic, may be blinded by its own fanaticism besides, but from what Harry’s seen in Maester Ternaz’ mind, they are first and foremost clueless when it comes to magical matters. They probably saw the results of the Targaryens’ experiments to bring back the drag— No.

Harry pauses. Even his magic, abuzz beneath his skin, still aching and sizzling from the torture it’s been exposed to, feels frozen in place as he recalls the feeling of being encased in the Citadel’s walls, crushed by the malevolent force of the drain. Its hunger. Its greed.

The magic had been — _is_ — old. Not just human old, ancient. So it must have started before. Before the dragons died out, back when magic was still omnipresent and undeniable in all of Westeros.

"You don’t know what it felt like." There’s a tingling in his fingertips and toes, but Harry’s tongue feels numb. "The magic. I wasn’t— It was _so hungry_."

But.

_It shouldn’t have been_.

"Power drains don’t…" Harry’s eyes narrow in thought. "They’re _reactive_. They’re activated by the presence of magical beings. The power of the drain rises with the amount of magic available because it’s the magic of the victims that fuels the curse’s power in the first place. If no magical being was around, it should weaken until it’s all but undetectable… That’s why old magical strongholds so often end up killing the very people who rediscover them… like the cursed pyramids…"

"Eli?" Jaime crosses his arms in front of his chest, a warning tinge to the name. "What are you talking about?"

Harry clicks his tongue, frown deepening. "Power drains are designed to be subtle," he starts slowly. "They don’t just bear down onto the first magical user they encounter until they pass out, usually. They do the opposite. That’s what makes them so dangerous. Yet that's exactly what happened at the Citadel. I knew something was wrong within moments of entering, even if my mind was too addled to put it together. Magic doesn’t work like—"

_Of course that’s not quite true, is it?_

"_Most_ magic doesn’t work like that," Harry corrects himself with painful clarity. He can literally feel his mind shaking the last of the cobwebs loose that have remained, clearer than it’s been for longer than he cares to remember. Echoes a joke Neville Longbottom made in another life. "But sometimes the old tricks really are the best."

[_Love_, Dumbledore had called it because the truth was too ugly, too cruel to be shared with an eleven year old child.

_Sacrifice_, Luna had named it in the wake of a battle they had survived but never truly won.

_Life_, Lady Malfoy had said when she’d used it to call in a debt better left forgotten.]

"Blood magic." Harry breathes the words with a dawning realization that will never truly encompass the horror lying beneath. "_Blood_ magic. Oh _fuck_!"

[There’s Dark magic and Light magic and Black magic and Death magic and Elemental magic and many, many other forms of magic. There’s typologies and categorization systems developed by the Majas, in Ancient Egypt, the Byzantine Empire, Ancient Rome, all the way to modern times. And none of them mean a single fucking thing.

There’s only magic that can do whatever you put your mind to, so long as you don’t break it’s Fundamental Laws. And then there’s blood magic, which breaks every single one of them.]

"Eli!" Jaime snaps, though that might be less because of Harry’s newly developing habit of swearing out loud and more because he almost bowls the man over when he races to the tiny window their room’s equipped with.

[The room covered in symbols and age old runes that Ternaz didn’t know what to do with.]

Try as he might, Harry can’t catch sight of the Citadel. Hell, he doesn’t even know if the room faces the right side of the city. Shit.

"We need to leave."

"What?! Eli, you need to calm down."

"Ja—rren." Catching himself just in time, Harry whirls around, meets Jaime’s eyes so the man can see just how serious he is. "I _am_ calm. Perfectly calm, in fact. I just discovered that the Citadel has kept its stronghold atop an active ritual site for blood magic and I genuinely don’t know which word in that sentence disturbs me the most. Believe me, I am fucking calm."

Harry doesn’t realize he’s shouting until his nose almost brushes Jaime’s own.

"Right." His uncle snorts. "You are the picture of serenity. Why don’t you sit back down and explain to me what about blood magic’s got you so worried while I bandage your hand, hmm?"

He’s already leading Harry back to the bed by the time Harry processes the meaning of the words. His eyes snap down to his hands and right, his left palm’s scraped up a little, but he’s got a few cuts on his right one. Nothing too deep, but a bitch to properly heal, especially in a place he uses so regularly.

He’d stumbled and cut himself on the rough stone of the walls, Harry remembers. The disorienting feeling when his skin had connected with the stone had been what finally tipped him off. His skin. Bloody and torn.

"I _bled_ on an active ritual site for blood magic," Harry states in a complete deadpan. Knocks Jaime’s helping hands away. "Leave it! We don’t have time for this. We need to move _now_."

"We’re not going to do anything until you explain to me what’s going on. Use small words to ensure I follow." He’s using the same calm, commanding tone Jaime used on Mern to keep him from panicking back in King’s Landing. Harry’s starting to understand why it was so effective.

"Blood magic is volatile to its core. It couldn’t have created the kind of power drain I felt, not on purpose." Harry grimaces as he considers the various possibilities how such a thing might have been created anyways. "But it’s possible that the magic was twisted — or evolved on its own — beyond its initial purpose. Whatever it’s supposed to do, though, it needs fuel to accomplish it. I must have been the first active magical user to walk down these halls in a long time, what with how desperate it reacted."

He shudders at the thought that he might not have been. That others simply collapsed upon their entrance and no one ever heard of it, no one ever suspected anything more.

"And it didn’t simply feed on my power. I bled onto the very stone, embedded and infused with its magic. I _activated_ a blood site. Knowingly or not, it won’t make a difference. Whatever the magic was meant to accomplish, whatever it’s been passively gathering power for all these years, it will begin _now_."

It’s doubtful that Jaime understands the true direness of the situation, but from his grim expression, Harry assumes he understands enough. "Could you stop it? Control it, somehow?"

Harry’s shaking his head before Jaime’s finished the query. "I don’t know enough about it to know what I should stop, never mind where I should direct the power instead. Besides the magic— it was angry. It wanted to lash out, to destroy, to—" _Burn_.

[Or maybe it had been Harry who’d been angry. Maybe it had been him who’d wanted to see them all pay for the crimes they’d committed against magic, against his people, against him. He doesn’t even know anymore.]

"Not an option then." Jaime tilts his head. "You promised you would write Joffrey. Let me take care of your hands, write your letter for your brother and we will leave Oldtown at the first light of dawn."

Harry wants to reject the offer outright, but the truth is Joffrey will need to know what he’s uncovered. Especially considering he may well reside on top of another ticking time bomb. And there’s also the fact that unstable as blood magic is, if he had brought whatever wards had probably been raised to contain it down, the Citadel would’ve probably imploded by now. They likely do have some time, they might as well make use of it. That, and Jaime clearly isn’t budging on this one.

"I’ll write to Joffrey, you’ll write Mother and we leave tonight," Harry offers, a compromise he’s confident they can both agree upon.

He doesn’t expect Jaime to wince and reflexively turn his face away, but the feeling the involuntary reaction provokes is not a good one.

"About that," Jaime grimaces. "I’m not sure how welcome a letter from me would be, seeing as I appear to be dead."

"_What_?!"

* * *

_Be brave. Be kind. Be strong._

Not a day goes by on which Joffrey doesn’t recall Elyanna’s last words to him. Doesn’t close his eyes and see the fire burning in her eyes that tells him_ do as I say or I will make you_.

The Red Keep is a changed place without her. Others might blame the king’s murder, but Joffrey doesn’t buy any of it. The man he grew up calling a father was many things, but beloved by his subjects he was not. Especially not here, in these very walls, where secrets are a well-traded currency and truths an unwelcome inconvenience.

Elyanna on the other hand? Weak and sick she might have been, Elyanna had a way of lighting up this place and bringing smiles to the faces of whomever she met.

She’ll come back though. Of course she will. Elyanna promised and she’s never once broken a promise she’s made to him. And as much as Joffrey yearns for the day when it’s safe for her to return, there’s a small part of him that dreads it. Because once his sister returns, Joffrey knows he will have to admit the truth. Not just to his mother, no. To Elyanna as well.

His sister is too clever to be fooled for long and Joffrey wouldn’t know how to begin lying to her besides. It’s different with Mother. Her he can avoid. But Elyanna?

Still, that is a problem Joffrey will have to handle soon enough. For the time being, he focuses on doing Elyanna proud. By being the great king she’s always believed him to be and by ensuring there will still be a home for her to return to.

It sounds a lot simpler than it is, as Joffrey’s had ample time to find out over the last few moons.

One thing his tutors forgot to mention is just how time-consuming and exhausting ruling is. And though Joffrey is starting to see how all those moral dilemmas Elyanna liked to discuss with him in the evenings can be applied to certain decisions, there’s also a lot of choices that aren’t covered by discussions on the value of human life, freedom, equality and other strange ideas.

None of his teachings help Joffrey decide on how high the taxes for the farmers in the crownlands should be and whether or not they are allowed to differ much from those of the Northern houses or those of the Reach.

The truth is Joffrey couldn’t care any less and he genuinely doubts Elyanna would think much different. But as king it’s his duty to care for these things — and the kingdom’s already in more debt than they can afford. So he makes due and he forces himself to pay attention and listen to the council men argue.

[In his darker nights, Joffrey reminds himself that this is already far more than his— than Robert Baratheon has ever done.]

With a sigh Joffrey pushes Littlefinger’s latest report — written in ridiculously small, neat handwriting — away. His eyes ache and his mind refuses to focus and even though it’s not even dinner time yet, Joffrey is more than ready to return to his chambers and sleep the rest of the endless day away. Or at least watch his younger siblings play in the palace garden for a little while.

The hard knock on the door is a blessing and a curse in one. A blessing for the distraction it’s sure to bring him, a curse for the fact that no doubt Joffrey will have to entertain yet another man who thinks too much of himself and play word games that hold less appeal when Elyanna isn’t by his side, giggling about a particularly well-chosen pun.

Clegane pulls he door open before Joffrey makes up his mind on whether a distraction would be worth the inevitable hassle.

"You’re supposed to wait for permission to enter!" Joffrey scowls at his sworn sword when it becomes obvious that the man is alone.

The Hound scoffs. "Then I’d be waiting all fucking day for the princeling to make up his mind."

Joffrey narrows his eyes. "I’m the king now. You should treat me with the respect that position deserves."

"I don’t see no crown." Clegane snorts. "And if you want someone to wipe your arse with a sweet fucking smile, you’d have gotten yourself a whore for a chamber maid and be done with it."

"A whore?" Joffrey raises his eyebrows. "Really?"

Clegane shrugs, utterly unrepentant. "Ain’t no better liar than a whore worth her gold."

Rolling his eyes, Joffrey reminds himself yet again that Elyanna, for some unfathomable reason, likes Clegane, so he can’t have the man whipped for his usual brand of disrespect without damn good reason. Even odder the Hound seems to return her affection. In his own abrasive, rude way.

[In retrospect, the way Clegane had fumbled around when Elyanna had been younger and asked with her most innocent face and big, guileless eyes, "What’s a whore, Mister Hound?" was hilarious. It’s too bad it only took the man a few missteps before he realized that Elyanna was playing with him.]

Sometimes Joffrey swears the only reason he keeps Clegane around is because he knows when to keep his mouth shut and look terrifying. Also a little because his comments scandalize ambassadors and lords and ladies alike.

[Well, that and the Hound is sworn to him, loyal to him. Inside the Red Keep, men like that are in short supply.]

"What do you have for me that is so urgent as to require my immediate attention?" he asks drily, resigned to the fact that Clegane will get his way like he always seems to. Perhaps if it would bother Joffrey more than amuse him, he would do something about that.

Clegane smiles, ugly and full of teeth. "A letter from your Highness’ sister."

Joffrey is out of his seat and rips the parchment out of the smug man’s hands before the man even has a chance to finish with one of his customary insults.

_Joffrey_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health. Anyone who touches it will feel compelled to hand you the letter immediately and any but those you trust shall believe a lord from the Reach has written to you about a broken marriage arrangement. Please write your response on the back of the parchment, it will return to my side three weeks after I sent it off._

_Jaime and I have reached Oldtown without any troubles, though I’m afraid it took longer than planned and trouble followed us once we reached the city. It seems I was both right and wrong to suspect the Citadel: They are indeed conspiring against magic, murdering children of inconvenient blood when possible. That said, they are likely not to blame for poisoning me._

_An unfortunate incident at the Citadel leads me to believe that magical rituals have been used inside the Red Keep that may have caused long-standing damage to those more sensitive to their presence. Keep an eye on Myrcella and Gwyneth, please. If they show similar symptoms as I did, send them away immediately._

_If possible, see if you can find any information on magical rituals the Targaryens’ or even the Kings of Old may have used on the Keep. It’s an old building with an older history still. If not the maesters, then the Faith may have recordings of them._

_We will have left Oldtown by the time this letter reaches you. I apologize for not returning immediately, but I do not believe the Red Keep or the Citadel are the only places that have been affected. There are a couple more cities I have to visit, to ensure that I understand the situation correctly— and hopefully find a way to counter this mess that doesn’t involve tearing the Red Keep apart stone by stone._

_Jaime wishes to let you know he considers this an incredibly stupid idea. And congratulates you for declaring him dead._

_There is more I wish to tell you, but none of it should be shared in a letter. I’m searching for another option. In the meantime give mother our best and take good care of Myrcella and Gwyneth. And Mern. And King’s Landing. Oh, and don’t send anyone you like or trust to Oldtown for the time being. I’ll explain that in person too._

_Love,_

_El_

* * *

On the first floor of the second building of the Citadel — the Great Hall of Meera — there is a long-winded, narrow hallway. The hallway has been built out of blackened stone and its path is lightened only by the fickle glow of the occasional torch. On a blackened stone in that very hallway, cast into shadows by the flickering fire, there is a bloody, incomplete handprint, too small to belong to a woman, let alone a man grown.

If someone were to brush against said handprint by accident, they might notice that it is still wet and hot to touch. If they were to lean closer, they might hear a hissing, sizzling sound, like acid eating through metal.

But it’s only a smidge of blood on a blackened stone in a dark hallway and no one notices or hears a thing.

* * *

"Well, this is a surprise," Tyrion states drily and moves to refill his wine.

Cersei doesn’t judge him for it. Is in fact pleasantly surprised when he offers her a cup of her own. Conversations between the two of them tend to require all the alcohol they can get. She doesn’t bother with thanks or toasts. Takes a fortifying gulp instead and gets straight to the point: "I need your help."

It’s no shock to see Tyrion visibly startle at her announcement. Cersei can count on one hand the number of times she has admitted such a thing and still have four fingers left over. Alas, there is a place and time for pride — and it is when her children are safe and sound under her protection, not a moment before.

"You want my help," Tyrion repeats incredulous. "I confess, I did not see that coming. Must have physically hurt you to admit this, I assume?"

"I don’t have the patience for your games, Tyrion!" Cersei snaps. "You know I wouldn’t ask you if I had another option."

"Which is exactly why I want you to explain your reasons, dear sister," Tyrion drawls, unimpressed in the face of her temper. It’s one of his most infuriating traits. Both of her brothers have always refused to be intimidated by her. He makes a show of leaning back into his chair, every inch of him the self-satisfied Lannister he conveys so well. "After all, if I am to get caught up in one of your schemes it’s only right I know what you’re aiming for, isn’t it?"

Cersei grits her teeth in an effort to keep her first dozen responses to her brother’s statement from spilling out and burning down bridges she can’t afford to lose. Downs her wine instead and forces her mind back on the matter at hand.

[She had intended to talk to her son, not to spy on him. Joffrey has been avoiding her for weeks and Cersei is not a patient person by nature, particularly when it involves the wellbeing of her children. She had intended to stride into this chambers and scold him for leaving his door unguarded, when—

"_My sister is not your concern, Clegane. Let it go before I decide I tire of your insults and cut out your tongue_."

And Cersei hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, not truly, but she’d frozen all the same.]

"Elyanna is not dead." Cersei spits the words out like they offend her, though she takes care not to let her voice carry them too far. "You know that as well as I do."

Tyrion freezes, slowly lowers his cup. A shadow crosses his face. Under other circumstances Cersei might have suspected her brother of scheming, but Tyrion would not put Elyanna at risk any more than her other children. He is a Lannister, no matter how much she hates him for it at times.That is after all why she has chosen to seek him out despite their less than affectionate relationship.

"I know nothing of the sort."

Cersei snorts in a manner that would scandalize the ladies at court. "If you go through the trouble of murdering a princess inside her own castle, you don’t make her body disappear."

That at least gets her a considering head tilt, but it’s not enough.

"As I recall, we’ve had that discussion before," Tyrion drawls. "And we’ve come to the mutual conclusion that there is nothing to be done until my niece is either ransomed or at the very least seen by anyone. Until such a thing occurs, we can do nothing but wait."

"But that’s only appropriate when assuming our enemies have her," Cersei shoots back with false calm.

Tyrion raises his eyebrows. "Everyone but us is the enemy, isn’t that the saying you’re so fond of?"

Cersei smiles, sharp and a little bloodthirsty. It’s the only answer she can afford to give.

["You can’t keep the little fury off the board forever, ’s all I’m saying."

"Then maybe you should stop speaking. My sister is exactly where she needs to be right now and I will not have your careless tongue threatening that."]

Understanding blossoms on Tyrion’s face then — he’s always been the smartest of the three. "You think she’s in hiding."

_In hiding? Or forced to hide?_

Cersei doesn’t let the darker turn of her thoughts show through sheer force of will. "I believe that Elyanna always has reasons for everything she does, you know how she is." They exchange a wry smile that only feels a little stilted, scarred over by old hurts. "But there are things that can be done to motivate her. To reconsider."

Tyrion’s eyebrows have risen so high, the ridiculous mop of his hair hides them completely. "What in the Seven Hells do you want me to do?"

Cersei steels her spine, meets her brother’s gaze evenly. "I need you to invite Ned Stark to King’s Landing in such a way that will not be traced back to me. Ensure as many of his children as possible come as well." She slowly breathes the air out through her mouth and continues. "I will owe you a favor of similar magnitude for this."

Tyrion’s green eyes are narrowed to slits, but Cersei doubts even his agile mind can figure out her reasons for this move. "And you will ask no questions as I’m assumed to ask no further ones myself?"

"Yes."

Tyrion taps his fingers restlessly against his cup, but the grin he aims at her is wicked. "Well then, sister; you have yourself a deal. Let’s see if we can’t lure a couple of stubborn northern wolves down South."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update came a bit quicker and is a little longer. I hope it makes for a nice Easter find! Again, unfortunately I don't have a lot of writing time right now - I'm right in the middle of my master thesis right now - but I try to find the time because I really love this story.  
I hope this chapter wasn't too much of an info dump! There's some magical theory I had to get out of the way, but hopefully Harry did a good job of explaining the basics. More details and theories about blood magic and the origins of the drain will follow, but at least now you have some of those answers I promised, right? And you can probably also see the way canon [my version of it at least ] is steadily catching up with us. Any suspicions what Cersei is up to? And did the reveal about Harry's magical issues make sense to you? Any predictions about the backlash of the ritual site?  
Please let me know what you think in a comment!! And have a wonderful Easter weekend, everybody and stay safe! [I know I'm behind on answering comments and I'm sorry about that! I'll catch up as soon as I have a minute, but please be aware that I've read every single one and they absolutely make my day and keep me inspired to work on this fic. Thank you everyone for reading and for your patience! <3]
> 
> Also, here's some background info that might help you keep track of everything [though I shouldn't need it to follow the story if you're wary of spoilers]:  
_Limited POV:_ Cersei still doesn't know who killed Robert and what happened to Elyanna; Harry still doesn't know Joffrey didn't include Cersei in their plan; Jaime and Harry did indeed only just now find out that Jaime's been declared dead, but they assume that Cersei and Joffrey devised this plan together to cover Jaime's tracks  
_Unreliable Narrator:_ Harry's explanations and thoughts on magic are based on what he knows of his past life. He can't and doesn't know how much of his knowledge applies in Westeros, he's simply assuming it does. Thus, he may be wrong about some things. That said, he's right about a lot too because the magic really doesn't differ that much.  
_Diverging Timelines:_ We're at a point where the timelines will diverge slightly, meaning that Harry's and Jaime's travels will not always match up with the timeline in King's Landing. We'll go through a lot of events there fairly fast because it needs to get done. With Harry and Jaime, we'll take our time at the places they visit on their spontaneous road trip through Westeros, but to catch up there'll be time jumps every once in a while to account for their traveling time. [Trust me, with Harry's magic hiding them, they'll be some of the most uninteresting travels along the roads Westeros has ever seen.]


	24. part iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with honorable people, is the thing.]

_296 AC_

{ _Winterfell_ }

"You cannot honestly consider leaving!"

"I’m being left little choice in the matter." Ned sighs, knowing his next words will not be well received. "But more than that, I wish to go. Cat," he takes hold of his wife’s hands when she makes to turn away, "I missed Robert’s funeral. I cannot regret that, for I would have never left you alone, not while Rickon’s survival was uncertain and you were sick. But you have recovered, as has our son. I wish to grieve for my friend now and offer his family what comfort I can. Robert’s oldest is a year younger than Robb and his youngest is four, did you know? Far too young to lose their father."

Catelyn closes her eyes and though Ned knows by the twist of her lips that she is unhappy, she does understand his decision. "Any age is too young to lose a father," she says softly and Ned bows his head in acknowledgement.

Though he has made peace with his father’s death in a way he has never achieved with Lyanna’s, he knows Catelyn is also worried about her own father, whose health continues to decline.

"It’s only for a few weeks, Cat. I’ll be back before you know it."

"You won’t be going alone though, will you?" His wife asks in that tone she uses when she already knows the answer, has already resigned herself to the answer and only mentions it at all to verbalize her protest.

Ned hates that tone. But he can’t bring himself to lie. The lies he’s told Catelyn over the course of their marriage may have been few in number, but the amount of hurt they caused cannot be so easily measured. "Our children are of similar ages and it’s true that Robert always dreamed of uniting our houses through the bonds of marriage one day." Ned shrugs. "I won’t arrange a match any of our children are unhappy with, you know I won’t. But neither can I reject the possibility out of hand."

"Of course you can’t." Catelyn shakes her head and musters up a soft smile. "Well, Sansa, at least, will surely love King’s Landing. Arya on the other hand…"

Ned chuckles at the thought of his younger — and wilder — daughter. "She is only eight, she will grow out of it," he says, more out of habit than conviction. There is much of his late sister in Arya, that same drive, that same wolfs blood showing true. Ned can only hope it will lead his daughter to a much happier end.

Catelyn, too, isn’t fooled if the knowing look she sends him is any indication. "If you say so."

"And Bran will have plenty to explore and learn."

"So long as he doesn’t climb one of those towers." Catelyn scowls. "He’ll break his back one of these days — or might get shot down by an overeager guard."

"I’ll talk to him," Ned promises because she isn't wrong.

"I still wish I could accompany you." Catelyn squeezes his hands. "You Starks have no proper appreciation for the beauty of the South."

Ned returns the gesture, but as much as he wishes to indulge in teasing his wife as well, the matter is too serious. "You are needed here, Cat," he says lowly. "Robb is a good, strong boy, but still just a boy. My leave will give him the chance to grow into his own, but he will need your advice and support all the same. And Rickon is too young to be separated from his mother."

"So you’ve said," Catelyn says calmly, which is her way of disagreeing without outright stating so. "And I will do my duty."

Ned smiles, though it turns out far sadder than intended. "Of that I have no doubt."

[He loves Catelyn, he does. But he cannot help but wonder what their marriage could have been like, had it not been overshadowed by lies and betrayal.]

* * *

"Why are you so upset about this?"

"I’m not upset," Robb disagrees reflexively.

"Oh, please." Theon rolls his eyes dramatically. "You’ve been pouting since your father told you of his decision. Look, even your direwolf agrees with me!"

Robb turned around and indeed, there was Grey Wind, one of the little direwolf pups they’d stumbled upon out on a ride a few weeks ago. The mother had been slain by a stag, from what they’d been able to tell, but the young ones were healthy as could be. Robb and his siblings had all been given a pup of their own and Father promised they would be allowed to keep it, so long as they raised them right and trained them properly. Even Jon, their half-brother who only rarely received a gift — only ever away from Mother’s eyes — had gotten one, a snow-white pup he’d aptly named Ghost.

The pups are young still, but they’re growing rapidly. Already, Grey Wind’s head is of a height with Robb’s knees. From what they’ve seen of the mother’s body, Robb suspects that, fully grown, Grey Wind will reach his chest, if not his shoulder.

"Hey, boy," Robb murmured and brushed through the thick, grey fur. Yellow eyes look up at him with more intelligence than Robb thinks anyone gives the wolves credit for and Grey Wind let out a soft, grumbling noise that Arya swears is his version of a cat’s purring. Robb isn’t convinced. He’s pretty sure most of the time, Grey Wind is laughing at him.

Right now, though, he’s got fresh blood on his snout and a dead rabbit between his jaws that he’s presenting Robb with a wagging tail.

"You’re a mighty hunter, aren’t you?" Robb praises, unable to suppress a grin. Not with how hopeful and proud Grey Wind’s looking at him.

"See?" Theon straightens from where he’s been leaning against a tree, watching Robb pace back and forth. "He’s trying to cheer you up. Bet he’s getting tired of the moping routine."

He casually pats Grey Wind’s flank on his way over, no sign of his initial wariness of the beasts. Those two may have had a difficult start, but now they’re as thick as thieves — particularly when they’re ganging up on Robb. Really, what has he done to deserve this?

"I’m not moping," Robb states. He’s getting tired of repeating himself, but it needs to be said. "I’m just — worried."

Grey Wind huffs a warm breath against his hand, until Robb resumes petting him.

"Whatever for? It’s hardly the first time your father leaves for a few moons. He’ll be back before winter comes, you know he will."

Of course Robb knows that. No amount of politics in the South would keep Ned Stark from taking care of his people during the coming winter. As Robb has been hearing his entire life: It’s been a long summer. And as the North knows better than most, on the heels of a long summer follows an even longer winter.

"He could take me with him," he points out what he hasn’t dared say to his father’s face, well-aware what the answer would have been. Theon doesn’t disappoint.

"No," he snorts, "he couldn’t. You’re Heir Stark. While your father’s gone, you’re acting Lord of your house. Your father needs you to keep peace and order in the North, not have you lose your head over some pretty Southern girl."

"Shut up." Robb punches his friend’s shoulder, which does nothing to get rid off the dirty smirk on Theon’s face.

"The way I see it, you should count yourself lucky. You wouldn’t know what to do with some fragile, little flower. From the way the men tell it, even the whores are softer down below the Neck. You’d be bored to death within a day."

"I think you’re confusing yourself with me again." Robb carefully relieves Grey Wind of his prey. The cooks won’t mind an extra piece of meat and experience has taught him that the stubborn direwolf will present him with more dead animals at far more inconvenient times if he doesn’t accept the offer. Sansa certainly hadn’t been amused by the feathers the last bird had left all over her room.

"Alright." Theon sobers — a little. "If it’s not girls you’re annoyed to miss out on then what is it?"

"I don’t know." Robb shrugs, knows it won’t do much to appease his friend. "I just don’t like it. Father and the girls and Bran, so far away from home."

"Sansa will probably fall in love with some cocky pounce who knows more about flowers than swords. She’s been dreaming of a knight her whole life."

At that statement, true as it may be, Robb can’t contain a grimace. _That’s exactly what I’m afraid of._

As though reading his mind, Theon bumps their shoulders together. "Come on, you know your father would never agree to a match with someone _less than honorable_." There’s something like a sneer on those last words, but right now Robb isn’t in the mood of confronting Theon about them. He knows his friend struggles with the very different definitions of honor between the Starks and the Ironborn sometimes, but it’s not an argument they need to rehash. "And Arya will run for the hills the first time one of those court ladies tries to put her into a gown."

"As long as she runs into the right direction," Robb says drily and shakes his hand. "But your right, shocking as that must be for you."

He ducks, laughing, when Theon makes to hit him over the head in false outrage.

"See, there’s that smile that has all the village girls blushing," Theon coos mockingly. "It’ll all work out, you’ll see. Arya will throw mud at the prince’s face and your family will be back in Winterfell before you know it. And it’s not like you’re alone, you know."

"I suppose I _do_ still have Jon," Robb says thoughtfully, then breaks into a run, only to get tackled from behind a moment later.

A few steps behind them, Grey Wind watches with an air of exasperated amusement, as though he can’t quite believe that these are the people he’s ended up with. Robb can sympathize.

* * *

{ _On the road_ }

Like every night, Sansa carefully brushes Lady’s fur out. Her direwolf is much calmer and more obedient than Nymeria or Summer, though that is probably as much because Arya wouldn’t know the meaning of tame if it bared its teeth right in front of her face and Bran is always running around in places he isn’t supposed to be in, Summer right by his side.

They’re both gonna be so much trouble in King’s Landing, Sansa just knows it. If they embarrass her family in front of the queen and future king, there will be hell to pay, that’s for sure.

Sansa is looking forward to their stay at King’s Landing. She’s never been in the South, never even visited her mother’s family home in the Riverlands. Mother has told her many stories of how different life is further in the South. How much warmer the air is, how different the lords and ladies dress, how beautiful the septs are. Sansa can’t wait to see a city as large as King’s Landing with her own eyes, to visit the Sept of Baelor and see the Iron Throne. More than that, she is excited to meet the queen, the prince and the princesses — the royal family that is at the center of so many stories both her parents have told over the years. See real knights at the tournaments, fancy titles and parties that the North has little use for, or so Ser Rodrik once told her.

[Though Sansa has heard a few maids whispering about how tournaments have only fallen out of use after the disastrous Tourney at Harrenhal, at which Prince Rhaegar Targaryen first revealed his interest in her aunt Lyanna Stark.]

The one shadow lingering over the entire journey is, of course, the murder of King Robert and disappearance of Princess Elyanna. Sansa had been horrified when she’d learned that the prisoners in the Red Keep had managed to free themselves and murdered the king in his sleep. The fate of Princess Elyanna was still unknown, but Sansa had heard many stories, each one more terrible than the last. She can’t imagine what it must have been like for the prince and younger princesses, to one day wake up and find their father murdered and their sister gone.

The gods know, Sansa spends more days arguing with her sister than agreeing with her, but she would never wish her dead.

In all honesty, Sansa is grateful that Father has only now decided to travel to the South. Had he gone a few moons earlier, they would have arrived in time for the King’s funeral — and that seems like a terrible place to meet anyone, let alone the family still grieving their loss.

"Well." Sansa sets the brush down with a satisfied smile. "One thing is for certain, Lady, the prince will never have seen a direwolf with fur as clean and pretty as yours. We’ll show him the beautiful side of the North, won’t we?"

She ends up shrieking with laughter when the direwolf promptly sits up on her hind legs to lick Sansa’s face.

* * *

{ _King’s Landing_ }

"Bad news, your Grace?" the far too interested voice of Petyr Baelish breaks Joffrey out of his internal contemplations.

Joffrey lifts his gaze from where he’s been staring with narrow eyes at the letter Clegane had brought him a week ago. The agreement of Lord Eddard Stark to travel to King’s Landing, together with the information that he planned to bring his two daughters and second son along. Which is all nice and well, safe for the fact that Joffrey has never asked for the Starks’ presence in the Red Keep. Not only would Elyanna never forgive him, if he entertained the Starks without her there to meet them in person, Joffrey has no interest to do so.

For all that Eddard Stark was a close friend of Robert Baratheon, Joffrey has never met the man. Not that he can remember, at least. And though Elyanna would undoubtedly remind him about the value of renewing and upholding alliances, Joffrey has heard much about the honorable Starks. Very much.

[He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with honorable people, is the thing.]

His personal issues aside, someone has circumvented Joffrey’s authority to invite the Starks to King’s Landing. Considering Joffrey has yet to receive unexpected letters from any other noble families that begs the question: Who wants the Starks here and why? It doesn’t improve Joffrey’s mood that the only people with the power to pull such a move are currently in the same room with him.

Seriously, Joffrey is beginning to understand why Robert couldn’t be bothered to attend the Small Council meetings. They are a _pain_.

"I don’t know, Lord Baelish," he responds evenly. "As one of my most trusted and well-informed advisors, I would hope you can tell me that."

Whether he likes it or not, the Starks are coming. Joffrey will have plenty of time to deal with them. Will, in fact, have no other choice. For now, though, there are more important things to focus upon. Politics wait for no one.

"What are the news on the exiled Targaryens?" Joffrey asks when no immediate answer is forthcoming.

Varys clears his throat with a grave expression. As expected, Joffrey’s day only goes downhill from there.

_Fucking dragons_.

* * *

{ _On the road _}

Harry gently trails a finger over the leaves of the blooming daffodil at his feet. He’s never seen one in such a bright color. It’s been a long time since he’s seen a daffodil at all — he wasn’t sure they could even be found in Westeros.

Footsteps, slow and steady, approach from behind. Harry doesn’t bother to turn. The long weeks of traveling with Jaime have inured him to sudden appearances from the man from all directions. Harry still tenses, is still aware, but ne no longer fires first and asks questions never.

It might be slow-going, but progress is progress.

"Are we leaving then?" Harry asks out of habit, if not genuine curiosity.

"We cannot leave," a female voice speaks up right behind him, causing Harry to whirl around, hand already raised in preparation of the slashing motion of the reductor that is sure to loose someone their head, what with how strong his magic is here.

He freezes, though, when he recognizes the slight, blonde woman behind him. She is older than he remembers, but not old. Her pale skin still free of wrinkles, her silvery eyes light.

"Luna?"

The woman tilts her head. "Perhaps." She smiles. "In as much as anyone can be someone, at the very end."

"What are you doing here?" Harry blurts out. His hand is still raised as though to strike her and though the position is awkward, not to mention uncomfortable, the longer he remains in it, he cannot bring himself to relax. They’d fought Voldemort together, Luna and Harry, and they had been friends. But. They’d never been close. Never gotten the time to truly get to know each other. And there’s questions, about those last few days as Harry remembers them, that leave room for many an uncomfortable answer.

Luna laughs, a soft sound of glass jingling in the wind. "I should like to ask you the same thing, Harry Potter." Her eyes are larger than Harry remembers them being, but her stare still has the power to make him feel uncomfortably exposed. "You should not be here."

"Where is here, exactly?" When Harry looks around anew, it seems impossible that he could’ve missed the vast emptiness of space surrounding their little speck of lush, green grass. He could swear that the fog, lingering in the far off distance, covering whatever sights might lie behind it, hadn’t been there a moment before. Of course, there isn’t much that Harry remembers of before, safe for the beauty of the little flowers.

"Nowhere," Luna answers promptly. Quirks another little smile. "Everywhere."

"Am I dead?" Harry asks with the nonchalance of someone who’s been there before, who has crossed where the living are not meant to go. It seems like the logical conclusion, what with his habit of blinking himself awake in impossible places. Though King’s Cross, at least, was familiar. This little meadow is not.

"Would you know if you were?"

Luna sounds honestly curious, which is the only reason why Harry considers the question carefully.

"I’d like to think so, but no." Harry shakes his head. "I’m not sure I would."

Luna stares at him for a very long moment. Then she takes a step towards him. Just a single one, yet somehow she’s standing right in front of him, the tip of her nose brushing his own. She raises her hands and gently lays them on his cheeks, and Harry doesn’t know why he lets her, but he does. Luna sighs, a cool breath of hair that ghosts over Harry’s skin and makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

"It’s such a pity," she murmurs, something sad and lonely in her eyes before it dissipates with another blink. "Open your eyes, Harry Potter. You do not belong here."

With those words and a shove against his chest, Harry tips backwards into nothingness. He jerks awake before he ever hits the ground.

* * *

Harry drops down by the fire Jaime has built with a relieved sigh. Like promised, they had left Oldtown in the early hours of dawn and ridden hard for several hours into the general direction of King’s Landing before Harry had deemed them far enough away to slow their pace. A little. Nevertheless, they’d continued on for several more hours, only taking a few short breaks to water their horses.

[Though when Jaime had found the time to organize a second horse, Harry probably doesn’t want to know.]

According to Jaime, they’ve made great time, but although Harry trusts the older man to know these lands, he can’t shake off the unsettling feeling of restlessness — of being too late. Maybe it’s the weird dreams he’s had the night before. [It’s been a while since Luna Lovegood has haunted his subconsciousness. Harry can’t say he’s missed it.] Then again, maybe it’s all that bullshit that happened at the Citadel that’s caused those dreams in the first place.

Tangling with blood magic has consequences. Doesn’t matter if you do it willingly or not, knowingly or not. There’s no solace to be found in ignorance, not where it concerns the old magical arts. 

All Harry has to do is close his eyes and he can recall it again — the stale smell lingering in the air, the cool draft in the corridor, the rough, cool stone underneath his palm and how little effort it had taken the material to rip and tear at his skin, almost like his blood had been drawn to it, that first second, as the connection snapped into place, before Harry forcefully tore it apart. [He can still taste ash on his tongue every time he swallows.]

What madness could’ve driven the Targaryens to use blood magic?

Of course, even as he ponders the question, Harry realizes that the answer is obvious. After all, there’s just one madness the Targaryens known for: dragons.

As a child, Harry had loved listening to stories about the dragons. He’d dreamt of them, fierce, majestic creatures, most of which looked suspiciously like Norbert and the nesting mother from the Triwizard Tournament. Tyrion, in particular, could talk for days about the mythical beasts once you got him started.

But it’s only now, that Harry looks back on the history his uncle had so often lost himself in, backed by the knowledge of dragons Hagrid and Charlie have imparted on him, as well as his own experiences, that he realizes how little sense they make.

"What’s wrong?" Jaime, who is busy preparing the two small birds he’d caught a few hours before.

Harry stares at the dead birds for a few moments, thoughts a world away.

"Joffrey taught me how to shoot," is what he ends up saying out loud.

"He did?"

"The bow," Harry confirms, the memories of those stolen hours bringing a smile to his lips. "And the sword too. Although I didn’t have any talent in the latter. But I was decent with the bow."

"If you say so."

There’s something in the way Jaime says those words, sounding far too amused, that has Harry fixate him with a thoughtful stare. "You knew, didn’t you?"

That’s the only explanation for the glimmer of mischief in Jaime’s eyes.

"Possibly." His uncle grins.

Harry rolls his eyes. "Of course you did. Who are we kidding? I’m pretty sure the whole Red Keep knew."

"Maybe half of it." Jaime’s eyes are twinkling traitorously, though his voice remains even.

Harry shakes his head, but continues anyway. Now that the thought has come to him, he refuses to let it go again. "We kept meeting up and practicing until I was too weak to do so without hurting myself." He grimaces because those long months and years he spent barely able to function in a body that only just held on to life were some of the most painful, frustrating, hopeless times of his entire life. Harry wishes he could forget those days, but they’ve defined the past years far too much to escape them fully. "Do you think I could take it up again?"

"Hmm?"

"The bow," Harry spells it out. "I want to start practicing again."

Jaime, who’s been distractedly maneuvering the cauldron over the fire, snaps his head up, loses his footing and almost spills the entire content onto the fire. Cursing, he hastily corrects his grip and carefully steps back before he turns around to give Harry his undivided attention.

"You want to learn the bow?" Jaime wipes his wet hands on his pants with a frown. "Is that necessary, with the whole…" he makes a sharp gesture that’s a fairly close approximation of the movement Harry uses when he’s practicing_ Wingardium Leviosa_.

"Depends on your definition of necessary." Harry shrugs. "It’s true that I probably don’t need it to defend myself, my magic should be plenty enough. But it doesn’t hurt to learn. Besides a bow is something I can use that I don’t have to hide and if I aim an arrow at someone’s throat, they know I’m threatening them. If I just point my finger, no one’s gonna take me serious until after I kill someone."

Besides there’s still too much Harry doesn’t understand about this magic. Why he’s so much more powerful, even without a wand, for one, but also whether certain wards or power drains are more common here in Westeros than they were back in England. Relying on his ability alone is risky. Granted, chances are if Harry’s magic is incapacitated, so is _Harry_, but still.

Jaime is still staring at her with those intelligent, green eyes that look so much like his mother’s — either one’s. Harry refuses to look away first. Finally, Jaime shakes his head once, twice. Not a denial, but neither is it a confirmation. "When did you grow up, Eli?" he asks and it sounds— not sad, exactly, but something close.

Harry shuffles, not sure what kind of response he can possibly offer to such a statement. To his relief, Jaime shakes his head a moment later, as though to dispel whatever thoughts are running through his head.

"Sure." His uncle’s smile is almost genuine. "What I can, I’ll teach you."

They pass the next half an hour in silence, before Jaime finally declares their food ready. The bird doesn’t taste all that great, but Harry is too hungry to mind. By the time he’s finished and licking his fingers clean, the fire has almost gone out, leaving only coal and glowing ember behind.

Harry stares at the last, blue flames, flickering stubbornly. He’d gotten distracted, earlier, but thoughts of the ritual site in Oldtown are never far from his mind.

From any and all accounts, the Targaryens had been obsessed with their need to rebirth the dragons into the world. A century and a half is a long time, surely a couple of the madder ones have dabbled in blood magic in an attempt to achieve their goal. But that doesn’t account for how old the magic is. And where have the Targaryens gained knowledge of such magic in the first place?

From what Harry has seen and remembers, magic is little more than a story in the everyday life of Westeros. There are creatures and legends and curious tricks — like Thoros of Myr and his flaming sword and those priests and priestesses of the God of Fire. Maybe even the House of Black and White. With trained assassins it would be hard to tell whether a murder had been carefully orchestrated or whether there had been a little something extra at work behind the scenes. But there’s no equivalent to Hogwarts that Harry knows of, no guilt that teaches its apprentices in the magical arts. No structures, no organization.

Magic has to start somewhere. It has to be utilized and the knowledge of how to do such a thing has to be collected. Which leaves the question of how it all began. How did the Targaryens stumble upon blood magic in the first place? If not in Westeros— where then?

_I myself have always found the beginning a promising way to start_, a voice that sounds suspiciously like his former headmaster Albus Dumbledore, echoes through Harry’s mind. Disregarding the complicated swell of emotions that association awakens, it is a good point. Where did the Targaryens stem from?

"_Valyria_," Harry murmurs to himself and feels a shudder slide uncomfortably down his spine.

There’s a lot of legends and even more horror stories tied up in the Doom of Old Valyria. What was it Sister Barba told them in their lessons? Something about Valyria being struck down by the gods for the sins the dragonlords committed by twisting the flesh of beast and men…

Granted, Harry doesn’t put much faith in the Seven, but blood magic could probably explain most of those so-called crimes against nature that the dragonlords committed — and might even account for the Doom itself. Magic of that magnitude always comes at a price and men have a tendency to try and put off settling their debts.

Yes, Harry supposes. There’s a lot in the dark, bloody history of Valyria that a desperate Targaryen might have resorted to, if they’d seen it as the only option to return glory to their family. One would think the ruin of an entire empire would give humanity a clue that messing with forces powerful enough to eradicate them is a bloody stupid move. But in Harry’s experience, people have a tendency to think themselves above the mistakes and failings of their ancestors. Too many of life’s most important lessons cannot be taught through history books — and would not be willingly received by their audience, even if it were possible.

Although why dragons appeared to be loyal to the Targaryens to the point of serving as glorified house pets, Harry would never understand. Stories and history seem to agree on that point, but it simply doesn’t add up.

_Hold on_.

"Eli?" Jaime kneels down beside her, face shadowed in the dimming light. He’s already unpacked his bedroll, though Harry knows it’s more for his benefit than anything else. Jaime rarely sleeps more than a couple of hours in the early morning. "Food not to your liking?"

"It was fine." Harry continues to stare into the remains of the fire, contemplating.

"Something bothering you?"

"The dragons."

If Jaime is surprised by the switch in topics, he doesn’t show it. Harry wonders how long his uncle has been waiting for him to mention magic again, then promptly discards the thought as irrelevant.

"What about them?" he asks instead and uses a long stick to push a couple pieces of coal and ash around.

"They were said to be intelligent," Harry says slowly, more thinking out loud than having a conversation. "Could tell friend from foe, or so the stories go. Smart as a human, some speculate, so probably much smarter than that. But that just makes it even more impossible."

The Targaryens might have earned the loyalty of one dragon or even a couple. Could have maybe befriended a few more that they raised themselves. But dragons aren’t pets. And they most definitely aren’t tame. Harry clenches his teeth. One could assume that twisting the flesh of beast and men was one crime that had been leveled against the Valerian families of old. But it could have just as well been multiple ones, separate ones.

To control a dragon, to _enslave_ an entire species— Well. There’s no question that blood magic would be involved. It’s been almost three hundred years since Aegon’s conquest. If what Harry suspects is true, for at least the first half of that time, the Targaryens’ kept their hold on the dragons through ritualistic blood magic that would have to be performed for each newborn dragon. Possibly multiple times, if a dragon proved particularly willful.

No wonder the maesters had believed the weight of the dragon bond would drive the Targaryens’ insane. It might have well done so. Dragons are powerful creatures. To bind one by force would demand a sacrifice beyond what a single human could give. And if the desire to bind, to control, to succumb is what drove the initial rituals, further twisted by the maesters’ fear and desperate desire to stamp magic out of existence… Harry grimaces.

If he is right, his magic couldn’t have tolerated that outlet, for it would have meant its own destruction. Its only option would have been to turn the sacrificial magic against itself, to attack the very strains it had been casting on the surrounding lands for so long. In the long run, that would likely mean that magic would return to the lands surrounding Oldtown again, would flourish and grow strong, where before it had been weakened and eventually died away. But in the short run, igniting the ritual circle would have been the equivalent of breaking a closed door open with high-level explosives. They might open the door — at the cost of leveling the entire building to the ground. Oldtown might not survive the fallout.

And that’s only assuming that the history of the ritual site began with the Targaryens.

_Well, shit_.

On the bright side, if Harry’s suspicion is correct, he has a fairly good idea of where, besides Oldtown and King’s Landing, the Targaryens’ would have employed such a ritual site. Which is precisely what he needs: An untouched ritual site that hasn’t fed on his magic for years or received his blood. With the proper preparation he’s so far been lacking, Harry should be able to dismantle the site — and maybe even channel the blood magic for his own purposes. If — and it’s a big if, not that Harry plans to share that fact — it works, that should give him the power needed to break the blood magic’s hold on the Red Keep as well. He could go _home_.

Harry ruthlessly suppresses that thought immediately. No point in getting anyone's hopes up. Not yet.

"I didn’t know you were so interested in dragons," Jaime comments, which brings Harry out of his scheming and back into the present.

"I’m just setting the tone for our continued travels." Harry throws his uncle a teasing smirk.

"Is that so?" Jaime raises his eyebrows. "And where will those travels lead us?"

"Why, Dragonstone of course."

* * *

{ _Oldtown_ }

On the ground floor of the second building of the Citadel — the Great Hall of Meera — there is a large room filled with small tables on which the acolytes painstakingly copy down every letter written to and from the Citadel, for safekeeping and preservation. In its corner furthest from the entrance door, there is a table that has remained untouched for many years.

If someone were to occupy said table, they might have heard an irritating, hissing, sizzling sound to their left. If they were to press their face against the wall to follow the origin of the noise, they might have found the stone warmer to touch than they would have grown to expect from within the Citadel’s buildings.

But the Citadel has not been overrun by prospective students for many years now, and no one hears anything out of the ordinary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand I'm finally back here as well. Sorry for the long pause, folks. I'm afraid my thesis took up far more time in those last few months than I anticipated. But I finally handed it in at the beginning of this month and have slowly gotten back into writing for fun in the last two weeks.  
More importantly, I've finally got a handle on the Starks [I hope] and a clear idea of just what will happen in the next few chapters. [Yes, I'm one of those crazy people who only has a very rough outline and just wings it 90 percent of the time...] I hope you like the insights into the various Starks. And please remember that these aren't the battle-hardened survivors we know from the later seasons (for those who made it that long). These are the fairly sheltered kids and it. will. show. I'm not intending to bash any Starks, but some of them won't always look good either. What can I say? We have to start somewhere and hopefully, they'll grow as people. If, you know, they live long enough to do so.  
Btw I've messed up with the ages of everyone: I started out using the movie ages for Elyanna, Joffrey and all the Stark kids, then accidentally went back to the book ages for Myrcella and Gwyneth and didn't realize that mistake until last chapter. Since I honestly can't be bothered to rewrite the entire timeline now, I'll stick with it and assume that Elyanna's non-canon survival led to a later birth for her younger siblings -- not that unbelievable, considering Myrcella and Gwyneth are trueborn Baratheons here and it seems fairly unlikely that the kids would be conceived at the exact same time, what with the very different relationship between their parents.  
Alright, enough from my side. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please let me know what you think of the Starks, Joffrey's on thoughts on their arrival and Elyanna's conclusions! {Seriously, does anyone else find it weird that the dragons just followed some random family, most of which went crazy sooner or later? I know they're supposed to be fireproof and all, and there's certainly a connection, but why should the dragons only consider one family worth bonding with? And why shouldn't that change when the Targaryens' lost their respect for the dragons?}  
*  
_Limited POV_: Joffrey has no clue that Cersei and Tyrion are behind the impending arrival of the Starks, Catelyn doesn't know the truth about Jon's parentage  
_Unreliable Narrator_: Harry continues to base his knowledge on all things magic, including dragons, on his background from his initial world. He'll continue to do that until he gets proof that his knowledge doesn't apply here — not the best method, perhaps, but he doesn't have the resources to research Westerosi magic in depth at the moment.


	25. part v

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You’ve been ordered to King’s Landing, Lord Stark. You are in need of every single friend you can get."

_296 AC_

{ _On the road_ }

Roughly half a day after their conversation about the bow, Harry and Jaime pass through a tiny village near the King’s Road. It’s made of a handful of farmers and their children, for the most part, as well as an inn that can’t see many visitors, going by the looks of surprised relief the serving girl shoots them when they enter.

At first, Harry assumed they would bypass the village like they’ve done on their way to Oldtown, avoid all human settlements if possible. Apparently something, be it a growing confidence in Harry’s magic — for Jaime’s coal black hair has yet to return to its customary blonde color— or the knowledge that he’s believed to be dead, have changed Jaime’s mind. That or he’s tired of spending all his days with only Harry for company. Either one is a possibility.

In any case, Harry doesn’t protest when Jaime leads them towards the signs of a settlement instead of away from it. As much as the solitude off the roads has been necessary for Harry to settle into this entire situation — not to mention keep his magic from leveling a city or accidentally killing someone — it’s all very removed from reality. The woods may be brimming with life and magic, that’s true enough, but their energy doesn’t make up for actual human contact.

Besides the inn’s roof may look like it’s going to fall apart any moment, but the tables are clean and the serving girl greets them with a smile. After she’s recovered from her initial surprise. The way Harry sees it, there’s worse places they could’ve ended up in.

"You got anything to eat?" Jaime asks and sits down at a table with the two chairs that don’t look like they’ll break under his weight. Nevertheless, Harry doesn’t miss how careful his uncle lowers himself into the seat.

"Fresh stew, only just made this morning, m’lord." The girl stutters, picks at the fraying hem of her apron. "We have soup as well, after my mother’s own recipe."

Harry tilts his head, not sure if the girl’s nerves are caused by the rarity of having customers or by Jaime’s_ dashing good looks_, as Ginny would’ve called it.

"I’ll have a bowl of stew then, as well as some mead," Jaime decides. "Eli?"

"The soup, please." Harry sends the girl a quick smile as she excuses herself, then takes the time to look around. If you ignore that they’re the only customers and that there’s three potential leaks in the roof that he can spot from this angle alone, it’s a nice place. Kinda reminds Harry of the Leaky Cauldron.

[In a good, pre-Voldemort’s-terror-regime way, not what it became after Tom was killed and some Ministry toadie took over and used the place to implement illegal spying charms and track public movements through the floo. Harry hadn’t been on the team that arrested the man, but he would have had to be deaf to have missed the protests that occurred when the man was let go without so much as a fine — in return for releasing his illegally-obtained records to the _ever so trustworthy _Ministry.]

"Excuse me," he stops the girl when she returns to carefully place a cup of mead in front of Jamie. "This seems like a nice place. Why don’t you have any other guests?"

The girl, who, now that Harry is paying closer attention, can’t be a day older than he is, maybe even a year or two younger, flushes. "I-I’m not sure. We try the best we can, but each moon fewer travelers stop by. Please, enjoy the mead, m’lord. I’ll bring your food as soon as it’s ready." With those words, the girl hastily returns to the where Harry assumes the kitchen is.

"That was odd."

"Was it?" Jaime doesn’t lift his eyes from his cup. "How could you tell?"

"Har, bloody har."

Jaime takes two gulps of mead before he sets it down again.

"Her name’s Ina. She’s got an older brother and a younger sister. Their father built this inn. Got killed by robbers around a year ago." He doesn’t sound bothered, but Harry has rarely seen Jaime truly upset. Usually only when something has happened to her or her siblings — or when someone makes a scathing remark about Jaime’s honor.

Still. "How do you know that?"

Jaime shrugs. Stares at the wall with a far-away look in his eyes. "Most travelers return to the same inns every time. It’s safer for everyone. You already know the people in charge of the place, which lowers the risks of getting ripped off. And it’s more comfortable to visit a place you know."

That makes sense. "When was the last time you stopped by here?"

Jaime frowns in thought. "Around seven moons ago, I think? Robert needed to deal with a dispute in the Reach and he was arguing with Cersei again, so he sent me. You were confined to bed at the time, so I wasn’t needed."

Harry lowers his gaze. It’s the first time that Jaime has mentioned that name — his father’s name. The only father he’s never known. [There’s a body on the floor that looks both, so achingly familiar and like it belongs to a stranger, and it can’t be—]

Clearing his throat, Harry pushes those uncomfortable memories away. Elyanna hadn’t dealt with them, hadn’t acknowledged them any more than had been necessary to get them out of the Red Keep alive. Much has happened since that terrible night, but not so much that Harry is willing to unlock that particular beast.

"Her mother was ill, so Ina and her brother were helping out," Jaime continues, either not noticing Harry’s reaction or pretending not to. Whichever it is, Harry will take it. This is not a conversation to be had in an easily damaged inn in front of witnesses, that’s for sure.

An uneasy quiet settles over them that is only broken when the girl, Ina, brings them their food. The soup tastes odd, but surprisingly good. There’s definitely some spices in it, from what Harry can tell, and what he thinks are potatoes. Possibly some root vegetables as well. Jaime’s kept them well-fed, but he’s no gifted cook, and Harry finishes the soup in record time.

"My compliments to your mother, her soup is delicious," he tells Ina when she returns to collect the dishes.

The girl winces and her smile wobbles. "Thank you. I’m sure she would’ve been glad to hear that."

"I’m guessing her mother didn’t recover from her illness?" Harry says a bit dryer than intended as soon as Ina is out of earshot.

"It happens." Jaime shrugs, the gesture at odds with the dark look in his eyes.

Harry wonders what her uncle is thinking of, but doesn’t ask. Sitting in the empty inn, surrounded by abandoned tables, it feels like she’s already asked too many questions.

With a bone-deep sigh, Jaime eventually stretches and throws a few pieces of silver onto the table. Harry’s eyebrows rise at the sight.

"That’s a lot for a bowl of stew and soup, don’t you think?" he can’t help but comment, much as he appreciates the thought behind the gesture.

Jaime, though, shoots him a grim look. "Take a look around, Eli," he says in a barely audible volume. "_Really_ look."

Harry does. He looks at the dirty floor that could use a sweep or two, at the old furniture that hasn’t been fixed in too long, at the door’s lock that looks broken even from all the way over here. He doesn’t doubt that these kids need the money, but he’s pretty sure that’s not what Jaime means. Maybe his uncle reads the incomprehension on his face, maybe it just occurs to him that he’s talking to someone who never went hungry a day in his life — that he knows of.

[Though Harry supposes he can’t really count the Dursleys. He went hungry, yes, was mistreated, definitely, but he wasn’t in danger of starving. Which is probably how the Order justified his treatment, now that he thinks about it. As the lesser of two evils. Never mind that keeping him there shouldn’t have been an option in the first place.]

"They’re going to lose the business, Eli." Jaime sighs. "With no family to look after them and no savings of worth, they won’t survive the turn of the seasons."

Harry swallows. "Oh." The tired lines on Ina’s face make so much more sense now.

There’s a part of him — the old, righteous part, the quintessential Gryffindor — that rallies against that statement. That wants to send those kids to the Red Keep and give them a job with Mern in the kitchen, that wants to ask Jaime why he doesn’t leave them with more money they won’t need anyway. That part is ruthlessly squashed by the older, more bitter part — the one that burned the bridges when he got tired of trying to rebuild them, that killed Death Eaters because _let’s see how they like being prey_, <strike>that killed a six year-old child because it was in the wrong place at the wrong time</strike> that got Jaime out of the Red Keep instead of crying over her father’s death like she _should have_ — the part that wants to ask Jaime why he bothered at all if they’re dead either way.

But those are bad thoughts to have, as Harry well knows. If you start down that road, why bother with any kindness at all? If everything is pointless in the grand scheme of things, why not just lay down your sword and give up? Joffrey had asked why she bothered to give the begging children in the streets bread every time she visited — publicly, that is — the lower levels of King’s Landing. At its core, it’s the same question, isn’t it?

Harry doesn’t remember what she told Joffrey that day, but maybe that’s not important. Because that’s just it, isn’t it? Kindness doesn’t have to matter. Doing good doesn’t have to matter. It can, and in a perfect world it should, but if it won’t, _so what_?

Ina peeks out of the kitchen door as they get up and Jaime inclines his head towards her while Harry settles for a weak smile. At the door, he stops for a moment. Considers. Gently rests his palm against the wood. Breathes.

_Fix it_.

[It’s not a spell, not even a fully formed order. Based on everything Harry has ever learned of magical theory, it shouldn’t even work. But. There’s so much magic in the air, in the ground, in the very wood he’s currently touching and it’s so _eager_ to please, to help, **_to_** **_be used_**.]

The uneven chair legs and broken roof don’t magically knit themselves back together, but there’s something, a bit like a warm breath of air in the winter cold, that tells Harry the magic has obeyed his will. It settles into the wood, the stone, the hearth of the inn. Feeling validated now that he knows it will work when every single one of Hermione’s lectures would prove it shouldn’t, he closes his eyes. Focuses.

_Protect them_.

Warmth rises under his fingertips, not uncomfortable but noticeable nonetheless. Harry shudders and feels the magic slide over him, acknowledge him and pass on. A thin sheen, not unlike a long sheet of lace briefly caressing, brushing, nudging against his skin before it moves on.

It’s not a ward. Honestly, Harry would be hard-pressed to define what, exactly, it is he’s just created. Not the magical equivalent of a wall or even an alarm system, certainly, nothing so intrusive. Just— a little something extra. Like a good luck charm, only focused on the safety of the building’s inhabitants. It won’t save them from the hunger or the cold, but maybe. Maybe it will make a difference.

"Eli?"

Jaime’s looking at him, two parts concerned, three parts suspicious. Harry just shakes his head, unwilling to draw any attention to what he’s done. 

"Let’s get out of here."

* * *

{ _King’s Landing_ }

King’s Landing is larger than any city Arya has ever seen. It also smells worse than a privy that hasn’t been cleaned out in weeks — don’t ask how she knows that. Those jokes she’s heard the men make on the way here, about shit attracting its own like make more sense now, Arya supposes. Although why you’d go through the effort of building a city this large, only to let its people suffocate in this stench doesn’t make sense to her.

Sansa only throws her a scandalized look and hisses "Arya!" in that high-pitched voice she always uses when Arya’s supposedly embarrassed her, but Sansa thinks they’re in too public a location to outright scold her. Sansa has a lot of those imaginary rules in her head that she cares about more than getting the things she wants to do done, which doesn’t make any sense to Arya.

But Father is walking towards them, so all Arya does is roll her eyes at Sansa and pull at the sleeve of her dress. It’s itchy and too tight around her shoulders. Arya wishes she would’ve been allowed to wear pants or one of her more practical dresses at least, but Sansa had insisted and both, Septa Mordane and Father had agreed with her.

Arya scowls. Like the queen and the future king of Westeros will care what kind of dress she wears. If he isn’t completely stupid, he’ll look at no one but Sansa _anyway_, and if he does, well. Arya doesn’t handle stupid people well. Jon would sigh and card a hand through her hair, messing up the braids Sansa’s been putting into her hair this morning. But Jon isn’t here.

[He’s needed at home, helping Robb, Father said, but Arya knows that’s not the real reason. It’s because Jon isn’t _trueborn_ like they are. Like that ever mattered to _anyone_ but Mother.

Which is stupid. It’s not like it’s _Jon_’s fault that Father broke his vows. And Arya’s heard the nasty things people say about bastards, but anyone who meets Jon knows he would never do anything like that. Jon is kind and honorable and he loves Robb and Bran and Rickon. He’d never hurt any of them, especially not for a stupid reason like their title. Of course, every time Arya has brought the issue up, she’s either told that she’s too young and "will understand when you’re older" or gets into trouble for yelling at Mother. Jon keeps telling her not to bother, but Arya has endeavored not to listen to him. Jon’s the smartest brother she has, but he can be pretty stupid sometimes. All her brothers and Sansa are.

Arya forgives them because they’re family and she loves them, but that doesn’t make tolerating their stupidity easier.]

Nymeria yips at her feet instead and though it’s not Jon, it’s almost as comforting. Father had told them to leave the direwolves at the carriage, but Nymeria doesn’t like cages, so Arya has chosen to ignore him. Sansa made a comment about how Lady is much better trained, but Arya privately thinks her sister is just jealous because she got saddled with the most boring pup.

Arya bends down and lifts Nymeria up in her arms, so she won’t get accidentally trampled or lost. She’s getting too heavy to be carried around like that, but for now Arya manages, though it does leave her breathless.

Father takes one look at Nymeria and furrows his brows, but he doesn’t say anything, so Arya knows he can’t be too angry. He gestures for them to follow him instead, Bran already by his side.

They cross the outer courtyard and walk up the stairs towards the entrance of the throne room together. Arya only loses her balance once, thanks to Nymeria’s restlessness, but one of father’s men steadies her before she can fall over and roll down the stairs. That, Arya has to admit, would be embarrassing.

There’s lots of guards placed near the entrance of the throne room, way more than Father has in his employ, and they’re dressed differently. Some of them wear cloaks embroidered with the Baratheon stag and some have armor decorated with the Lannister lion. Personally, Arya doesn’t understand why anyone would choose a stag for a banner animal. A lion or dragon is way better, not that any of them could hope to beat a wolf.

She hugs Nymeria closer to her chest and smiles when the direwolf licks her chin. _Nothing beats wolves_.

* * *

The queen is beautiful, Arya has to admit. She wears a finely woven, red dress and her golden hair is braided in a complicated pattern that makes Sansa’s own attempts to imitate the more intricate Southern designs look easy.

"Why’s the queen not wearing a crown?" Bran whispers as they approach the royal family.

"Because with the king dead, the crown goes to her son," Arya hisses back, scowling at the thought. She’s had plenty of lessons on heritage, but she doesn’t think it will ever stop bothering her — that a woman can’t take the Iron Throne, even in situations such as this, the way a man can. At least that’s what everyone keeps telling her. Arya calls bullshit.

Cersei Lannister looks more than capable enough to lead an army. Why shouldn’t she take over until her children are fully grown?

Said children are standing next to her. The boy to her right has hair just as golden as his mother’s and sharp, green eyes. He’s wearing fine clothes, no armor, though he does have a sword and a dagger strapped to his side. That must be Prince Joffrey, heir to the Iron Throne and soon to be king. Next to him are two girls several years younger than her. The newest princesses, whose names Arya has forgotten. Both of them have dark hair twisted into braids and the younger one looks as fidgety as Arya feels.

Until she catches sight of Nymeria and positively lights up with glee.

Huh. Maybe being stuck with the princesses for a few weeks won’t be so bad after all.

"Welcome to King’s Landing, Lord Stark," Prince Joffrey greets Father as soon as they’re within proper speaking distance.

His voice is high, hasn’t yet broken the way Robb’s and Jon’s did in the last few months — which was _hilarious_ — but there’s a firmness to him that her brothers’ lack. Arya misses the next bit — mostly because it’s the usual introductions and polite inquiries that grown-ups for some incomprehensible reason love to indulge in — but she jolts back to attention from counting the amount of blades the Iron Throne is made of back to the ongoing conversation in time to learn that the princess with the shy smile is called Myrcella and the one who still hasn’t looked away from Nymeria is Gwyneth.

And there’s a weird moment, where the King Mother speaks with light words and a soft smile, where Prince Joffrey takes them all in, gaze lingering on the direwolf emblem on Bran’s cloak, Sansa — who predictably blushes prettily _and how do you even blush pretty, seriously, Arya can’t even_ — and Nymeria, whose restlessly squirming in Arya’s grip. Arya wants to be annoyed with her sister’s stupid crush, but there’s something about the prince’s expression that bothers her, although she can’t put into words _why_.

"You have a long journey behind you, so let’s not waste anymore time with conversations that are best held after a long night of sleep and a proper meal." Joffrey gestures for a servant girl who appears literally out of nowhere. Arya wonders if she can teach her that trick. "Guest quarters have been prepared for you. We shall reconvene at dinner tonight, in a more private setting, to have a chance to get to know each other better. Until then, please rest easy and let the servants know if there is anything you need."

Joffrey smiles and Arya doesn’t know about anything he’s said, but she’s grown up with Mother and Jon — she recognizes a smile without heart when she sees one.

* * *

{ _On the road_ }

Harry blinks. Takes in thick fog that seems to cling to him, to follow his every movement, as though desperate to remain within his grasp. There’s no source of sunlight that he can discern, but the the white sheen glistering in the air makes it hard to see. The world is too bright and too dark at the same time and Harry— Harry _knows_.

"I thought I didn’t belong here," he says without turning.

Luna settles to his right in the soft moss, relaxed and comfortable, like she’s always been there. Who knows, maybe she has been. It makes about as much sense as anything in this place itself does.

"You don’t."

Simple. Matter of fact. As though she, for all intents and purposes, has given him an answer to every question he hasn’t even asked yet.

Harry sighs. Some days he misses Luna like a phantom limb. [Most days he can’t even remember the last words he spoke to her.]

"Then why do you keep dragging me here?"

Luna hums. The melody is oddly familiar, like a half-remembered childhood favorite.

"I didn’t drag you here. I can’t." She tilts her head upward and whatever she sees beyond the fog must fascinate her. "No one can."

"You’re not lying," Harry states, surprised by how sure he is of that. How he just _knows_.

"I have no need for lies."

Another truth, though not a helpful one.

"Then how come I keep waking up here?" he asks with no small amount of frustration. It doesn’t help when all Luna does in response is throw her head back and laugh, loud and unexpectedly boisterous.

"You’re asking the wrong questions, Harry Potter."

The way she says it, as though every syllable tastes delicious, leaves a hint all of its own behind, reminds him of— someone. He’ll have to think on that. Later. For now, he decides to make the most of Luna’s light mood. "How am I supposed to stay away when I don’t know how I end up here in the first place?"

Wide eyes glitter like silver and cut like steel. He should be afraid, probably, of this girl by his side. All of Harry’s instincts tell him so. But his breath remains even and his gaze doesn’t waver. There’s nothing to fear about any truth Luna has ever imparted on him — nothing more than there is to fear of any truth, that is.

"By accomplishing the hardest task mankind could be asked to face:" Luna’s voice deepens even as she turns away, releases Harry from her endless gaze. "To let go of that which has been lost to you."

Harry swallows agains the weight of her words that bear down on him like a physical burden. Drag him downdown_down_, towards the ground, towards— The chains dissipate as quick as they appeared, a trick, an illusion of his own mind. A manifestation of hopes and desires best forgotten.

Harry closes his eyes. Breathes. Considers.

If no one can bring him here, he comes on his own. And if he has to let go of something that draws him here, something that keeps a hold on him when it shouldn’t—

When he turns his head, Luna smiles at him. This close, he can put a name to the odd, enticing air that surrounds her. Luna smells of sunshine, of staircases moving on their own accord, of Ron laughing so hard that pumpkin juice drips out of his nose, of Hermione slamming a thick book shut with a thunderous look, smells of _home_ and Harry—

**{_calm, lost one_}**

When Harry comes to, his throat feels raw even though he doesn’t remember screaming and his eyes burn, for all that he can’t remember the last time he shed a tear. He folds his hands, though that does nothing to calm their trembling, and Luna’s arm around his shoulder feels like a warm, home-knit blanket, feels like an iron chain, drawing tighter and tighter and.

"What’s wrong with me?" he asks or thinks he does. He honestly can’t tell if his lips move or not.

"You do not belong here," Luna murmurs and there’s a second layer beneath the comforting smile she offers him— grief.

[_You cannot stay_, echoes around them like the continuation of a play’s script they’ve both abandoned. _You cannot return_.]

A part of Harry wants to snort. To scoff. Because if he’s honest with himself, completely and utterly honest, he’s been waiting for this moment since he woke up in a strange meadow in an even stranger land. The price._ Because what kind of second chance comes without strings attached?_

"And where _do_ I belong?" he forces himself to ask.

Luna— stills.

Slowly, achingly slowly, withdraws from their one-armed embrace. Pulls back and away from him, her face frozen in an expression of something beyond Harry’s understanding or experience, something old and magnificent and terrible and so, so empty. When she speaks, her voice has the raspy quality Professor Trelawney always aimed for but mostly missed, and something deep inside Harry’s core curls up and **_screams_**.

"You already know." It’s a response, not an answer. And maybe Luna reads the frustration and annoyance in the lines on Harry’s face, knows he won’t settle for this, because she continues after a brief pause without his prompting.

"A call was heard and a call was answered."

_InsultExasperationCondemnationApologyAbsolution_**_Judgement_**.

There’s a glitter in Luna’s eyes that Harry thinks might be tears, except he knows they’re not. She reaches towards him, suddenly, trails her fingers over a daffodil blooming at the place where Harry could’ve sworn his feet were resting just seconds ago, and Harry gets the feeling that if Luna was anyone else, her hand would shake.

"A debt was called in and a debt was settled." Luna leans in closer, the color of her eyes melting into liquid mercury. There’s a fire burning in her eyes that Harry recognizes all too well and he cannot help but wonder what it was that ignited those insatiable flames. "You are where you are choose to be at any given moment in time. As are we all."

"… I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with that."

Luna giggles. The first rays of sunlight break through the fog, though the visibility of their surroundings doesn’t increase. "You will figure it out. You always do."

"No pressure, hm?" Despite everything, Harry’s lips quirk up at the girl’s sudden light-heartedness.

"No." Luna shakes her head so hard, Harry can feel the tips of her hair brush against his cheek. "There is no deadline you have to meet here, Harry Potter. Only those you set for yourself."

"Well, that’s certainly refreshing." His voice is drier than dust, but something about the way Luna emphasizes those words comforts him nonetheless.

The grass they’re sitting on is moist and dark. Not quite green either. Harry runs a hand through it slowly and wonders what about these plants it is that reminds him of a thestral’s mane. The grassland remains undisturbed from Harry’s touch. He experimentally presses his palm against the ground and watches as blades of gras rise up the moment he lifts his hand, erasing every sign of his touch.

As though it had never been there.

[The observation sends a shudder down his spine though he doesn’t understand why.]

Luna tilts her head back. Stares at the sky above them as though it holds the answer to all their questions. When Harry follows her gaze though, there’s nothing to see there. Only the endless fog, thick and white-ish and uncomfortable to look at directly.

"I still don’t understand why I’m here," he admits after a long moment of silence between them.

Sure, in theory Harry understands why he may subconsciously cling to wherever the hell this place is. But if he’s clinging to his past, shouldn’t Ron and Hermione and the others be here as well?

Luna hums again, the same haunting melody that is oddly familiar. Harry still can’t place it.

When she turns to meet his gaze again, her eyes are the color of liquid mercury and all around them the world, the entire plane of existence— wobbles.

"Tell me, Harry Potter. Just _how much _do you trust Fate?"

* * *

{ _King’s Landing_ }

Ned has no love for the South, for many reasons. That doesn’t make him blind or incapable of appreciating the beauty that can be found in the warmer parts of Westeros. Even King’s Landing, for all the ugliness it holds — out in the open and hidden deep within its core — holds beauty in many shapes and forms.

The grand halls are certainly impressive and hold much in terms of art and memory. Most of which their inhabitants would probably like to forget. [Even Robert in all his righteous madness hadn’t managed to fully erase the Targaryens from the heart of their kingdom.] But it is the seemingly endless gardens, thick, lush grass everywhere, flowers in full bloom, that really catch Ned’s attention.

Cat would love them, he knows. Love to walk down the many different paths and discover new, exciting sights wherever she goes. Sansa certainly will.

It’s a shame that she can’t be here with them, for all that Ned is glad Robb isn’t on his own. Sansa will do his best to convey these wonders in her letters, no doubt, but the descriptions will pale in comparison to the real thing. And Catelyn, who has been yearning for a Southern summer for many years now, will know that.

"A beautiful view, is it not, Lord Stark? If perhaps not quite as beautiful as the view you left behind," a voice speaks up behind him.

Ned turns from where he’s been staring down at the waves crashing against the cliff far below his feet and comes face to face with a short man with a slender built and a small, pointed beard on his chin. His features are vaguely familiar, but it’s the mockingbird embroidered on the man’s plum-colored doublet that settles any doubts.

"Lord Baelish," Ned greets. "I did not expect to find you here."

Baelish laughs. "I’m a man of simple pleasures, Lord Stark. If anything, I have to admit I am surprised to find you here of all places. Men of the North, after all, are not necessarily known for their love for flowers."

Ned snorts. That’s certainly one way of putting it. "It’s been a while since I’ve last seen the sea."

"Ah." Petyr Baelish casts his glance around, curious and dismissive in equal turns. "The Greyjoy uprising?"

Ned shrugs, neither confirming nor denying. They haven’t even made it through polite smalltalk yet, and he already tires of the conversation. To say nothing of the many, many conversations that await him in the upcoming days. His stay at King’s Landing will be _exhausting_, he can already tell.

"Not a man of many words. I have to say, your reputation does you justice, Lord Stark." Baelish sounds genuinely amused. "Whatever has driven you to here, into the heart of the South and all the politics you’re said to so despise?"

"I came to honor my king, my brother in all but blood, Lord Baelish," Ned says simply. "Is there a reason why you’re asking me all these questions?"

"Oh, I haven’t even started on the real questions yet! Why, the Lord Stark and three of his children of age to be betrothed traveling South as the day of Prince Joffrey’s coronation fast approaches?" Baelish shakes his head. "The entire court is in an uproar, Lord Stark. Rumors are flying fast, about matches and marriage — what is, after all, a king without his queen?"

Ned doesn’t grimace, but only just. He can think of quite a few kings and queens, who would’ve been happier without each other in their lives. Robert and Cersei are only the the most recent addition in a long line of failed marriages, if what Robert told him about some of the Targaryen matches and the Mad King in particular is true.

Baelish’s question is no surprise. In fact, Ned knows well it was only a matter of time before the first approached him — and Baelish will hardly be the last. None of that changes that Ned isn’t in the mood to placate other’s curiosity and insatiable need to know things that are truly none of their business. _Especially_, when Ned still isn’t sure why he’s here exactly.

Hopefully, his private meeting with Prince Joffrey tomorrow will answer some of those questions. And don’t give him too many new headaches to deal with. Speaking of headaches—

"Lord Baelish—"

"Please," Baelish interrupts with an easy smile. "There’s no need that title, meaningless as we both know it is, Lord Stark. Call me Littlefinger. All my friends do."

At the man’s audacity, not to mention his self-assurance, Ned raises his eyebrows. "I hardly call us acquaintances, Lord Baelish, never mind friends." Perhaps he is too harsh — Catelyn keeps telling him so — but Ned has no patience for sweet-talking and meaningless words.

Baelish isn’t offended though, or at least he doesn’t appear to be. If anything, Ned would describe the look his response earns him as pitying. _Wonderful_.

"You’ve been ordered to King’s Landing, Lord Stark," Baelish says with much less warmth and far more earnestness than he’s shown so far. "You are in need of every single friend you can get."

* * *

{ _On the road_ }

"Pull your shoulders back- No, not like that. Stand straighter. Feet a bit farther apart, good. Now pull back, a little farther. Remember your elbow, a little higher. Higher. No, that’s too far. Yes, like that!"

"This stance feels weird." Harry flexes the fingers around his bow. He feels weird, uncomfortable. His body isn’t used to these motions and even though they haven’t been at it for more than half an hour, his arms are already trembling faintly.

"That’s because you’ve been doing it wrong for years!" Jaime snaps. He’s nothing if not a perfectionist when it comes to teaching. Might explain where Joffrey got it from, though Jaime has far more patience. And can actually explain what Harry’s doing wrong without falling back on "_Because Ser Barristan said so!_".

Damn, but Harry _misses_ the little twerp.

"Alright. Now focus on your target. Aim. And fire!"

The arrow hits the tree stump right where Jaime has carved a small circle into the tree bork, no bigger than Harry’s palm. [Just like all the ones before.]

Jaime scoffs. [Just like all the times before. Turns out, the only thing Jaime despises more than a lazy student is one who disregards every rule on how archers are meant to stand and still hits their target every single time. Turns out Joffrey’s frustration with her was justified: Harry’s arrows aren’t supposed to fly the way they do, never mind land where she wants them to.]

"This is _impossible_." It takes a lot more self-control than Harry expected not to smirk at the pained annoyance in her uncle’s voice. Ser Jaime is one second away from burying his face in his hands and wailing in exasperation, she can tell.

It just figures that Harry can float in the air, rip entire trees out of the ground and dye Jaime’s hair without earning much more than a reflexive twitch and a raised eyebrow in response. But when his arrows hit their targets in spite of Harry’s terrible posture, _that’s_ when Jaime’s delicate sensibilities get hurt.

[Not without reason, of course. Now that Harry’s magic isn’t kept down by ancient curses, he can feel it at all times. His magic is a part of him, always has been. An old, dearly beloved friend, molded into the very marrow of his bones, humming restlessly underneath his skin. Harry doesn’t think he used to be as aware of it as he is now — but then, he never had to live without it before. Not even when he didn’t know what the power pulsing in his veins was.

And it’s not just him. Not just Harry, who is aware of every shift his magic takes as it stretches, reminds itself of its own strength again. Regains the mobility it never should’ve lost. It’s his magic too. Always reaching for him, always eager to help, to please, like an attention-starved puppy desperate for its owner’s affection.

It reminds Harry of the thick air of slumbering power that surrounds them on these trails deep within the woods. Watching, waiting, begging to _do_. The comparison makes him uncomfortable, for all that it is accurate.

And it’s because of that sensitivity that Harry feels the magic leap to his aid when he twirls the wooden arrow between his fingers, feels it infuse the sharpened sticks, bend them to his will. Harry’s ability to hit his targets isn’t any sort of innate skill or long-standing practice. He doesn’t miss because he wants to hit. Nothing more, nothing less.

It’s both, comforting for the knowledge that even at his weakest, his magic always followed his desires to the best of its ability and disheartening to know that he has no actual talent for the bow. Mostly, it’s useful, and Harry has plans to experiment with what else he can make the arrows do — just as soon as he gets Jaime off his back about his form.]

"Wipe that grin off your face, little lady! You’re still not keeping your bow steady enough when you release the arrow. And the way you clench your hand around the handle is going to give you cramps before you’ll ever make a dent in any attacking force. We’re not starting on dinner until you can do this in your sleep!"

* * *

By the time Jaime is finally satisfied with Harry’s performance for the day — though he makes it clear that if she’s serious about learning the bow, they’ll continue these exercises every second day until the correct stance is natural to her and her posture won’t get her laughed out of any tournament — the sunlight is already dimming. Leaving preparations for their camp to the one who can make fire appear out of thin air — _not_ fiendfire, Harry isn’t suicidal — he disappears into the undergrowth to hunt. Because apparently Harry would hurt him or herself rather than be any help.

[That’s a bold lie and they both know it. She _can_ hit after all. Probably make it a clean kill too. But Jaime’s taking this whole teaching her thing seriously, and Harry understands where he’s coming from. This is something she’ll have to master the right way, if only to keep from damaging her body by continuously overexerting one shoulder and straining her muscles unnecessary.]

There camp is ready within minutes and Harry is sitting by the fire, waiting. He’s twirling an arrow between his fingers. It’s a move Neville, Ron and Harry taught themselves with their wands in those rare moments when they had too much time on their hands and not enough things to do. When idle hands drove them mad and the focus on a single task was exactly what they needed.

[Also, Malfoy had mastered the art of twirling his wand dramatically during their fifth year and Ron had never forgiven him for that.]

Trying it out now, with an arrow is an odd feeling. Harry simultaneously goes through the motions instinctively, based on months of practice and muscle memory, and feels his fingers struggle with the unfamiliarity of the twists and turns. The dichotomy throws his pattern off and the first few times he attempts it, the arrow clatters to the ground before he gets through a single circle. But Harry is patient — and he’s not starting from scratch. This is something he knows how to do and though his hands don’t remember, the instinctive understanding is still there.

Twirling the arrow back and forth between his thumb and index finger isn’t so hard, it’s once the other digits get involved that it gets complicated. It’s relaxing though, reminds Harry of all those hours spent practicing with his friends.

[And hey, maybe not everything _Harry Potter_ was is lost to him. Maybe there are some things he can reclaim — some things he never left behind.]

* * *

The fire is burning low by the time Jaime returns, two dead rabbits slung over his back. Harry has long put the arrows aside. There’s no use in straining his already sore wrists more than he already has.

He sits silently by the fire and watches Jaime prepare the meat instead. There’s a light breeze in the air, but other than the rustling of leaves and the occasional animal sound, the world is quiet. It’s not the unsettling silence before the storm, the brief lull before the inevitable leap. There is something easy, something restful in the air tonight, and Harry tries to soak in that sense of peace. To draw it a little deeper into himself with every breath he takes.

It’s easier said than done. Harry’s mind isn’t in the habit of settling for quiet.

[_"How can you even ask me that?! The only fate I ever got was a stupid prophecy that got my parents killed and gave every capable adult within a hundred miles radius a ready excuse to put their head in the sand and wait for child to storm in at the last moment and save their sorry asses!"_

_"And so you _**_did_**_."_]

The flames flicker. Cast the world in dancing shadows that leave you with no clear idea where the light ends and darkness begins.

[_"What are you trying to tell me?"_

_"What I’ve been telling you from the start."_

_"What, that I don’t belong here? Thanks, I got that when I woke up in a body two heads smaller and one gender to the left!"_

_"Do you? You’re still asking the wrong questions, Harry Potter."_

_"… Merlin, you and Eon would love each other."_

_"Excuse me?"_

_"Hm? Oh, just some smug, cryptic asshole that stabbed me for no fucking reason. Sound familiar? I guess I do have a type after all. Hermione will be so disappointed to lose that bet."_]

The inviting smell of cooking flesh weaves through the air around them, but although Harry can feel the hunger rumbling in his stomach, the sensation is a distant one, half a world away.

Jaime’s hands are still moving rhythmic and confident, though Harry has missed the moment where the man exchanged the dead rabbit for his sword. A sword he’s cleaning and sharpening in a well-practiced routine now.

It’s silver blade is gleaming in the firelight. There’s fresh blood dripping from it.

Harry jerks around so hard, he almost loses his balance. Which is quite the achievement, considering he’s sitting on the ground, ankles crossed in front of him.

"Eli?" Jaime’s gaze is on him now and it startles Harry that he honestly doesn’t know how long the man’s been looking at him. "What’s wrong?"

Harry blinks and blinks again. There’s no blood on the sword. _Of course_ there isn’t. Jaime wouldn’t have used it for the hunt or for skinning the animals. That would’ve been impractical, not to mention ridiculous. He carries a dagger for a reason.

"Nothing." Harry forces a laugh that falls flat half-way through. "Thought I saw something, that’s all."

Jaime turns towards the tree line surrounding them with renewed attention, but there’s nothing there. He casually puts the whetstone away, and Harry would’ve been fooled if not for the fact that their food isn’t ready yet.

"Really, Jarren," he repeats. "There’s nothing there."

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a hint of brownish-red on the tip of Jaime’s sword.

[_"Alright, I fucking bite. What the hell has fate to do with all this?"_

_"Nothing. Nothing at all."_]

* * *

{ _Oldtown_ }

On the lowest floor of the Citadel, two levels beyond what most consider the lowest floor, never learning of what secrets lie far below their feet, there is a small chamber with a door so thick and so well-secured, even the Mountain himself would need hours to break it down by force. A thick layer of dust covers the floor, testament to the lack of visitors that have come by in many years.

If someone where to stumble upon this room, be it out of curiosity or a simple coincidence, they might have stepped inside for a moment, wondering what treasure the empty room could possibly to deserve such security measures. And so they might have disturbed the thick layer of dust, might have discovered the odd symbols lying beneath. Carved into every edge of stone, a carefully arranged tapestry covering the entire floor. They might have been fascinated by these signs that are so different than any of the old languages studied by the maesters.

And perhaps, if they had remained in this small room for a while, they might have taken a look at the blank walls, the ceiling. They might have taken notice of the tiny spot on the ceiling, where grey stone is darkened by something else, right in the center of the room. A tiny spot that grows larger with every passing moment. If they had noticed, they might have reached for this spot — for the ceiling hangs low over even the smallest member of the order’s head, this deep within the building — and discovered a wet, brownish-red substance, as warm as the lifeblood running through their veins.

But the keys to the thick door have been lost decades ago and so no one stumbles upon the small chamber, by accident or otherwise. No one is there to notice a stain that grows larger and larger with every moment, collecting the thick liquid on the ceiling in an odd shape that might have reminded an unbiased observer of a handprint. No one is there to witness the moment when the gathered liquid inevitably yields to gravity and a single drop falls from the ceiling and lands in the middle of the small circle, carved in the ground beneath it.

For a moment, everything is quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think this chapter is a mess, that's because it is. I've never struggled with a chapter for this story as much as I did with this. And I'm honestly not sure _why_. It's not a particularly important chapter - I wouldn't quite call it a filler, but it certainly doesn't hold any scenes I've been picturing weeks in advance and I still couldn't get it right.  
[My notes say there was supposed to be a conversation between Robb and Jon in this chapter. Only I didn't write down what the hell they were supposed to talk about #thanksfornothingpastme. I also wanted a scene between Ned and Joffrey, but I had to rewrite that twice and then cut it out entirely because Ned was being an idiot and Baelish kept insisting that I couldn't possibly write King's Landing without him stuffing his nose into scenes where he doesn't belong. Also Luna. Seriously that scene was supposed to be _straight-forward_, what. the. fuck. girl.]  
Still, I hope the chapter length somewhat makes up for the long wait. And I'd apologize for ending things on that note, but really, who would believe me?  
If you're enjoying this fic and you have the time to spare, please share your thoughts in a comment! They seriously help me so damn much to stick to this story and continue writing and it's such a pleasure to read your ideas and suspicions every singe time! [I mean really, what's going down at the Citadel? How's that meeting with Joffrey and Ned gonna go? The fuck is Luna doing in this story anyway? How many more issues can I pile on Harry's head before I'll call it a day?]  
I hope you're all doing well. Take care, everyone!


	26. part vi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why don’t you light a flame, Harry Potter?"

_296 AC_

_My dearest El,_

_I assume this letter will reach you without troubles and that you are indeed in good health — good health as I understand it, not the much less precise definition you yourself prefer to employ. Should this not be the case, I expect you to return home immediately.  
_ _Myrcella and Gwyneth are both well, although they miss you dearly. They are too young yet to keep such a secret or understand what death means, which may be for the best, all things considered. Mother is less than pleased with me at the moment, but I am sure you will here more than enough complaints from her once you return._

_I will not bore you with the many technicalities of ruling — though you would undoubtedly deserve it. The less said about the Small Council, the better. I am half-convinced that Arryn is the only member that does not wish to see me dead, though I may give the old man too much credit. Suffice to say, I now have a much better understanding why you have refused the Iron Throne and am dearly tempted to follow your example. Traveling the country with you does sound far more tempting than another argument about the expenses the Crown can afford for my coronation — which are precisely none.  
_ <strike> _You will be back for my coronation, won’t  
_ </strike> _Although I have utmost faith in your abilities, I do confess myself curious as to how this letter will return to you. And why you are waiting three weeks to do so. If you do find a faster way to reach you — and if anyone does, it will be you — I would appreciate it. It has been far too long since we have seen each other._

_Thus far, my inquiries on magical rituals have not been fruitful. The grey rat assures me that their grand maesters are currently searching though the archives in Oldtown, but process is slow. Not to mention, I do not trust Pycelle or any findings he may yet report. On the Targaryen front, Varys has not been particularly helpful. He does not hold magic in high esteem, or so it seems. Uncle Tyrion — who arrived shortly after your departure and has yet to leave, in spite of Mother’s various hints — seemed interested though. If anyone can discover helpful information about the Targaryens right in the heart King’s Landing, it will surely be him._

_I will be carrying this letter with me until it returns to your side. Take care of yourself and return soon, sister. I would not appreciate having to avenge you. Wars are expensive, or so my advisors assure me. Safe travels._

_Your brother_

* * *

{ _On the road_ }

He’s back at their meadow. It’s somewhat annoying to realize that he’s starting to think like that, to consider it 'theirs'. Even more annoying is the fact that Harry is here at all. He put a lot of conscious effort into not coming back, damn it.

[Harry doesn’t like this. Not at all. Luna keeps insisting that it’s him who’s coming here, of his own volition, but if so why can’t he seem to stay away? Why can’t he remember how he gets here in the first place? And then there’s Luna herself, who is always just that bit too vague to feel helpful, even if he only realizes the fact that she hasn’t answered any of his questions when he wakes up. Isn’t it all just a bit _too_ convenient?]

"Do you remember what it feels like?" Luna asks suddenly. Breaks the silence between them, that Harry hasn’t even noticed has grown more tense with every passing moment. Is it his own mood that affects the atmosphere around them or can Luna just read him that well? He doesn’t know which option is the more unsettling one.

"What what feels like?" Harry asks and tries not to feel like he’s a very young child being prompted with the correct thing to say.

[Why does it feel like their every conversation follows a script he doesn’t quite grasp? And perhaps the more important question: What kind of play is it that they’re acting out?]

"Having magic course through your veins." Luna smiles, a wistful, far-away glance in her eyes. "Having every cell of your body vibrate with the force of it. So all-encompassing, the rest of the world fades away and all that is left is the power within you. So willful, so eager, so _greedy_."

Harry makes an involuntary noise, like the breath has been punched out of his lungs. It certainly feels like it has and from the knowing look Luna shoots him, he’s not hiding it all that well.

"You’ve kept a tight control on it for a while now, but it’s tiring, isn’t it?" Luna nods, not bothering with a verbal answer she already knows. "To keep on denying it the freedom it craves, the freedom its earned. To always push down, make yourself smaller, weaker, lesser than you are."

Harry grits his teeth. "So what? It’s nothing I can’t handle."

He’s already keeping the conflicting memories of his two lives as far away from each other as possible. Already pretends he doesn’t keep seeing the blood dripping down Jarren’s blade. Already pretends to be Eli, pretends not to notice that his body is too small, too weak, too unfamiliar, his center of gravity off, his chest feels weird, the scars along his arms and stomach are missing, his fingers are longer than he’s used to. Pretends not to care that he’s a boy, is a girl, is Harry, is Elyanna, is _neither_ and _both_ and _nothing fits quite right_.

What’s one more thing to push aside, one more issue not to address?

[That magic is more than a _thing_, is more than a mindless tool at its owner’s disposal, is neither here nor there. It’s not like Harry doesn’t use it at all, is it? It’s not like they don’t travel with constant Notice-me-not-charms around them and every camp they make is warded against robbers and stray animals. He just— keeps a close watch on it, is all. He hasn’t forgotten the way he accidentally ripped out three trees with a simple levitation charm.]

Luna hums. "Of course you can." There’s no missing the mocking undertone. "That’s what you do best, isn’t it? To hold yourself back and watch the frustration build, the leash draw tighter and tighter until one day, like a rubber band, it **_snaps_**."

This time, the meadow around them doesn’t wobble, it breaks apart. Right in the middle, like a titan grabbed two sides of it and pulled. And— Harry doesn’t fall, not really. [He was never standing in the first place.] But for a moment, he’s surrounded by fog — except it’s not fog, is it? It’s smoke, clogging his throat, making it harder to breathe and he doesn’t even care — and when the world reforms around them, they’re no longer standing in their meadow.

The room Harry finds himself in is small, small enough to give him uncomfortable flashbacks to his cupboard, and covered in symbols that look suspiciously like the runes Hermione tried to beat into his head after the war. Not very successful, considering the signs are all just wiggly squibbles to him.

Luna is still standing to his left. Their surroundings might have changed, but with the way she stands Harry is willing to bet they haven’t moved at all. [This Luna doesn’t seem like someone easily moved. Not at all.]

She bares her teeth in the mockery of a smile and it takes all of Harry’s willpower to not take a step back. He’s only seen this side of Luna once, when they hunted down the woman who’d murdered her father in the Battle of Hogwarts. It’s not an experience he’s eager to repeat. "What is a worse burden to bear, I wonder: To know the future, but be unable — unwilling — to change it or to wield the power to beat back all your enemies single-handedly but leave nothing worth fighting for behind? To remain willfully blind, forever the silent accomplice in another’s schemes, or to chain yourself so tightly, you barely remember your own strength? That is our curse, our burden, is it not?"

Mercury eyes glimmer in the dim light like flaring embers of a dying fire and not for the first time Harry wonders if, once you start a fire of this nature, you can ever put it again. "To hold yourself back again and again because the world around you is so fragile, so suggestible, oh so _flammable_."

She waves a hand at their surroundings, the stone walls on every side of them, no tree or plant in sight, and Harry _gets it_ suddenly. Why she’s brought him here, why the scenery has been rebuilt around them. [There’s a stranger looking back at him in Luna’s eyes and this, too, is someone Harry recognizes.]

"This is a dream, isn’t it?" he asks nevertheless, before Luna can make him an offer he can’t refuse. Pushes his realization away for the time being. This, somehow, feels too important a moment to disrupt. [After all, it’s not like he doesn’t have plenty of experience playing along to other people’s whims.] "What will it matter?"

"Nothing more and nothing less than the hold every memory has on the present." Luna shrugs as though she doesn’t care one way or another, but Harry reads between the lines. "You cannot rewrite your life’s story within your own mind, Harry Potter. Only review what has been and speculate on what is yet to come. You can only remember."

[It’s not the "_Why would that mean that it’s not real?_" Dumbledore gave him once upon a time, but Harry is not so blind as to miss just how much memories have and are still affecting his every waking — and apparently sleeping — moment. And yet. Some chances are too good to pass on and it’s been a long, long time since Harry has allowed himself to _let go_.] 

Luna smile widens as though she can feel the exact moment Harry makes his decision. It should be unnerving, but at this point he can’t even tell himself that he’s surprised.

"Why don’t you light a flame, Harry Potter?"

* * *

It’s not the first time Harry jerks awake violently, breath catching in his throat, a nameless, unfathomable emotion thrumming through him in the rhythm of his own heartbeat. Not by far. But it’s the first time Harry jerks awake with a grin so wide, it feels like it should split his face in half, a gleeful happiness coursing through his body that he doesn’t understand the cause of, but is unable to suppress or push aside.

He licks his dry lips and even though he tastes nothing but ash on his tongue, Harry feels giddy, so giddy he finds himself laughing helplessly and doesn't know how to stop. It’s a good day to be alive.

* * *

{ _Oldtown_ }

On the 21st day after the second moon-turn of the year 296 AC, roughly three moon-turns after the death of King Robert Baratheon, First of his Name, Oldtown _burns_.

* * *

{ _King’s Landing_ }

The moment, Joffrey opens his eyes, he knows that today will not be a good day. Will in fact be a completely terrible, utterly unredeemable day, to the point where he wishes Elyanna would be back by his side — where she _belongs_ — already, just so Joffrey could shove the crown at her and wash his hands of all these squabbling nobles with their petty problems that are so utterly insignificant and beneath his notice, it’s not even funny.

Don’t get him wrong, Joffrey likes being the heir to the Iron Throne, the 'King without a Crown’, as whisperers on the streets have taken to calling him, if Varys’ information is to be believed. [It’s too bad that Elyanna isn’t here to hear it, she would have laughed herself sick. Whereas Mother was furious at the disrespect — as she’s been ever since he pushed the coronation back. With any luck, he’ll be able to hold out until Elyanna is back to see it.] He’s always liked it. Joffrey has been raised to take the Iron Throne all his life and he’s never seriously entertained another life. He’s just also never imagined he would rule without Elyanna.

[Of course, there are a lot of things he never imagine that occurred anyway.]

He simply wishes being king wouldn’t make him obligated to care about other people — people besides his family. Or pretend to care, really, since that’s all anyone ever seems to do. Jon Arryn seems kind enough, certainly, but for all his efforts to keep the order, his concerns are first and foremost his own people and lands. The kingdom comes second. Which is still better than Pycelle, who cares about his whores and comforts more than about his duties, Varys, who serves the ever-nebulous 'realm' or Littlefinger, who only cares about himself.

[They look at him and see a little boy playing at being king, easily led and impressed because of his age and Robert Baratheon’s carelessness. They forget that Joffrey was raised by Cersei and Elyanna far more than he ever was by the king. Was raised by a woman who despises every single male surrounding them and a girl who taught Joffrey how to lie and listen and _play the game when everyone thinks you’re nothing but a pawn_ long before his teachers started their first lessons on proper conduct and diplomacy. Joffrey was eight when he had to figure out when Elyanna was lying to him to hide her failing health — these men whom he grew up around, whom he’s known since he was too young to pose any sort of threat, are no challenge to read at all.

Adults forget that children don’t stay children forever. Joffrey vows he won’t ever make that same mistake.]

But these truths are the sort people think, not _say_. Especially not in the Red Keep, where truths are as dangerous as lies to one’s health. So Joffrey isn’t just supposed to be oblivious to the gritty reality, even if he weren’t he’s supposed to keep up the pretense. Because that’s what the people want to see, what the court expects, what the advisors consider most advantageous, what Mother considers appropriate.

And it’s so, so hard to comply because. The pretense of being good, being responsible and caring, chafes. All the more so because there’s no Elyanna who will listen to his rants and frustrations and bitter venom and threats without batting an eye or flinching, who will welcome him in her arms every time the weight of the expectations, of every watching gaze — so eager to see him stumble, fall — overwhelms him.

[Joffrey isn’t good at caring about anyone’s opinion but Elyanna’s, even when he knows he should. He hadn’t thought it would ever be a problem. That’s what he has his big sister for, right? Except. Except.]

Having Lord Eddard Stark in his own home — as much as the Keep can be a home with its most important inhabitant missing — is not unlike adding an additional thirty pounds of pressure to the already unbearable load on Joffrey’s shoulders. Knowing that the late king loved Lord Stark like a brother and that Elyanna is intrigued by the family doesn’t help. Neither does his Mother’s clear disgust for them.

Just thinking about these people and their fucking direwolves — _who_ thought it would be a good idea to bring those creatures into the Red Keep and hold them as pets, seriously — makes Joffrey itch to do something very stupid. Like 'order every single person in the Red Keep killed, replace them and hope Elyanna won’t notice the difference when she returns' levels of stupid.

It’s therefore an unpleasant realization that his upcoming conversation with Lord Stark is not the cause of that persistent feeling of doom Joffrey is experiencing. For all the stress preparing for the talk has caused him, the actual encounter is surprisingly painless.

One reason for that success is definitely that Joffrey makes sure to kick out any unwelcome advisors that try to invite themselves along — and yes, that includes his mother. Their relationship has been strained ever since Elyanna disappeared and while Joffrey would like to fix it, he’s not sure how to go about it or what the problem even is. Maybe if Elyanna was here— but that’s a useless contemplation. In the meantime, Joffrey needs to discuss the potential of a betrothal between the houses Stark and Baratheon with Lord Stark and that’s one conversation he wants to keep his mother far, far away from.

Joffrey hasn’t forgotten the unholy alliance that rose between the king and his mother back when the Small Council proposed a marriage alliance between Elyanna and the prince of Dorne. He doubts anyone has.

It’s bad enough that he has to have this conversation at all. The only reason Joffrey considers a marriage at all is because an heir will help his claim, give his reign more stability. Even then, he’s been planning on choosing a Southern girl, preferably one with enough brains to not get in his way and raise his children properly — although with Elyanna around, Joffrey can’t imagine he would ruin them too badly —, but not enough ambition to become dangerous. Not a daughter of House Stark, whose members he barely knows and who are all rumored to be not just honorable, but stubborn as well.

No, House Stark wouldn’t have even made the list if Joffrey had been the one to make this choice. Unfortunately, someone is pulling strings behind the scenes. There’s no other explanation for why Lord Stark chose to travel to King’s Landing with his younger children — he’s expecting a match. And he wouldn’t be expecting it if someone hadn’t given him the impression, not now that Robert Baratheon is dead and won’t push for it anymore.

[Joffrey knows damn well that the late king had been pushing for a betrothal between Lord Stark’s heir and Elyanna — the only boy he’d considered worthy of her, if less for the boy’s own characteristics and more for his lineage. The only reason Mother had convinced him not to make the arrangement final had been Elyanna’s health. Had she recovered and were the king still alive, a visit of the Starks would’ve been unavoidable.

But Robert Baratheon is dead. And whoever has brought the Starks to King’s Landing — is forcing Joffrey’s hand, if only to avoid losing face and smoke the rat out — _will live to regret it_, though not for long.]

Until the guilty party reveals itself, Joffrey has no choice but to play along. And the most reasonable choices are, unfortunately, himself and Sansa or Arya Stark. [It doesn’t bear mentioning that even if Elyanna was here with him right now, all the Seven Hells would freeze shut before Joffrey would betroth her to a stranger who lives in the fucking North and would _take his sister away from him_.]

That is the sole reason he invites Lord Stark into his private meeting chamber and orders Clegane not let anyone interrupt the meeting unless people are dying or the city is under attack. He’s very clear on that part. If he isn’t Clegane will find a way to circumvent his orders just to be a little bitch. For all his gruff, silent appearance, the man is surprisingly sneaky when motivated — and also petty as fuck.

"Thank you for coming, Lord Stark. Please, sit." Joffrey gestures towards the visitor chair and offers the man something to drink. If only because he’s not having this conversation without alcohol and it would be impolite not to share.

One can murder one’s enemies with a smile and a particularly painful poison, but one can’t be impolite when offering it, that just isn’t done. At least if Mother is to be believed. And she has far more experience at court, so Joffrey is inclined to believe her.

Not that he’s planning on poisoning Lord Stark. At the moment.

"I appreciate that you made way for King’s Landing so soon after receiving my request," Joffrey starts once they’re both seated. Up close, Lord Stark looks older and more severe than Joffrey expected. Or maybe it’s just that twinkling light in his eyes that’s missing without any of his children nearby. Joffrey blinks, then shakes off the odd thought of how his mother also looks much colder when none of her children are in sight.

"I do not make a habit of keeping my king waiting, your grace," Lord Stark says slowly, as though carefully weighing every word to decide whether it’s worth the bother of speaking up. "More than that, I wished to pay Robert my respect — and return home in time to help preparing my people for the coming winter."

Duty, respect and more duty. Joffrey can’t say he’s surprised. His mother had warned him, after all. "Nevertheless, I understand that you did not expect an invitation until my official coronation, so I apologize for the inconveniences it has caused you." _And especially myself_.

"The Houses Baratheon and Stark have been close allies for many years, an alliance that my father has spent his entire life building and fortifying. As I’m sure you suspect, I wish to continue his work and solidify the alliance between our houses through a marriage. I don’t want my father’s efforts to be in vain and for the physical distance between our lands and homes to slowly erode the bonds that once tied our houses together." Somehow, Joffrey makes it through his entire speech with a solemn face and not a hint of hesitation on the word 'father'.

Lord Stark strokes his beard in thought. He doesn’t look surprised, but Joffrey didn’t expect him to be. They both knew exactly what this conversation would entail before it started, after all.

"I’m aware that Robert always wished for an union between our houses, though I didn’t realize he was actively pushing for it," Lord Stark says after a moment with a sigh. There’s genuine note of grief in his voice and Joffrey is caught off-guard by the sudden understanding that this may be the very first person to truly grieve the king’s death he’s encountered since that terrible night. It makes him— uncomfortable. "Which arrangement did you have in mind, your grace?"

Joffrey narrows his eyes. "I will not make arrangements for any of my sisters until they are of a more suitable age, Lord Stark," he says — too sharp to be polite, not that he cares.

That’s the easy part of his answer. The other part, well. Joffrey has watched Lord Stark’s daughters carefully since their arrival, especially during those hours until their shared dinner, when the girls didn’t know he was there.

Arya is a bit young, which would have the added benefit of not requiring him to marry her for a few years — though that’s of course the whole point of this arrangement. She’s also wild, impatient and suffers no fools, which, while certainly amusing, doesn’t make for a promising queen. Not when Joffrey can barely be bothered to do his duties as it is, without having to put out the fires Arya would cause.

Sansa on the other hand is almost off-age to be married and is much calmer and better-mannered than her sister. Catering to her notions of romance would be exhausting, Joffrey can already tell, but at least she wouldn’t go out of her way to cause him problems. She looks sweet too, so unlike Arya’s wild spirit and Mother’s sharpness and Joffrey can appreciate that. [He may love his mother, but he’d never want to marry a woman of her like.]

"I would like to propose a betrothal between myself and your elder daughter Sansa," Joffrey says calmly. "Should we find each other agreeable, I would aim for a marriage shortly after my coronation. Should the courtship reveal insurmountable issues between us, we will of course be free to separate and find someone better-suited."

That second part is important. Not that Joffrey would care one way or another if Sansa broke the engagement off — he prefers that to having to suffer an embittered marriage, honestly — but he won’t stand for it unless it’s already part of the arrangement’s initial terms. He has an image to uphold, after all. Not to mention there is every chance _he_ will find the girl disagreeable and will decide to break the betrothal off.

Lord Stark keeps his silence for such a long time that Joffrey seriously expects the man to decline the offer straight from the start, no matter how unwise such a move would be. He’s starting to understand how Eddard Stark earned the moniker 'Quiet Wolf'. Finally though, the man inclines his head. "I would like to speak to my daughter before making a final decision."

Well, Joffrey can respect that. "Please do so, Lord Stark. However, I must insist that you will let me know your decision within seven days. Otherwise, I will be making other arrangements." And, more importantly, if the match falls through, Joffrey can kick them out within a week. The prospect alone does wonders for his mood.

Which is of course when the irritating feeling of impending doom intensifies, just as the door is thrown open with a level of violence only Sandor Clegane would dare to showcase when dealing with the future king of Westeros.

"I thought I made it clear that I was not to be disturbed, Clegane." Joffrey fixates his sworn sword with a severe glare.

Clegane scoffs, unimpressed. "Unless people are dying or the city is under attack, your grace." He has a gift of making 'your grace' sound more insulting than 'princeling' ever does.

Joffrey tenses, then immediately forces the muscles in his shoulders to relax again. He can’t imagine that anyone would be attacking King’s Landing and people are always dying somewhere, so.

Clegane pulls a pale, sweaty and shaking man wearing the Tyrell sigil after him. "An envoy from House Tyrell. Says he’s got an important message for the king for matters of life and death."

Joffrey doesn’t pinch the bridge of his nose, but it’s a close deal. "Lord Stark, if you would please excuse me. It seems something urgent has come up."

"Of course, your grace." Lord Stark inclines his head and leaves the room with steady steps. Joffrey allows himself one moment to wish he could follow the man, just to get away, before he squares his shoulders and turns to the envoy.

"It’s Oldtown, your grace!" the young man bursts out even as he hands over a sealed envelope with trembling hands. "The entire city burned to the ground!"

Joffrey freezes for a moment before he rips the missive open, even as Clegane snorts in the background.

"It’s true. It appears a fire broke out at the Citadel sometime during the night. By the time anyone took notice, the fire had already spread and half the city’s buildings stood in flames," he says a moment later. Meets the Hound’s gaze over the letter. "The Tyrells are seeking our help in any way we can afford — they’re saying the fire is cursed. That it doesn’t stop burning until there’s nothing left."

From there, Joffrey races towards an impromptu Small Council meeting filled with pointless, time-wasting arguments, followed by an emergency meeting with the head of an alchemist guild that Joffrey wasn’t even aware King’s Landing had until this day. By the time Joffrey has another moment to himself, the sun has long set in the east and the only positive thing he has to say about the entire day is that Elyanna’s letter has finally disappeared from his breast pocket.

Which, now that he thinks about it, isn’t even a good thing. Because after the hell that was today, Joffrey has plenty of questions for his sister. Like what in the names of the Old Gods and the New Elyanna meant by "_don’t send anyone you like or trust to Oldtown for the time being_" three weeks before the entire city burst into flames.

Really. Joffrey would _love_ to hear what explanation Elyanna has to offer for this entire mess.

* * *

{ _Dragonstone_ }

Melisandre is a woman of seduction, not force. More than pleasant aesthetics, this requires her to be patient and to always remain just that bit out of reach. Nothing, after all, is as delightfully seductive as a mystery. Over the course of her life, Melisandre has perfected the art of becoming that mystery, of appearing as more than she is, far removed from those around her even when she stands right by their sides — as is her duty and her destiny.

For not all battles are fought with swords and armies. Melisandre has served the Lord of Light for many more years than her appearance would suggest and though she is far from all-knowing, she does understand her role in the fight against the Long Night. A part of it, at least. The Lord has granted her many insights into his plans in reward for her faithful service.

[Not all of them, never all. Just enough to lead her along the right path, which is all she truly needs to fulfill her role.]

Tonight though. Tonight Melisandre cares little for her usual procedure. Not when her Lord’s light still burns brightly within her, cradles her, strengthens her. Not when the knowledge the flames reveal to her is clearer than ever before.

Thus, Melisandre makes an exception when she storms into the study where Stannis Baratheon is spending another night bowed over mountains of parchment — wasting his true potential, not that Melisandre will tell him this, for his sense of duty is one of the defining characteristics that will lead them through the darkness ahead — heedless of her unkept hair and barely decent state of dress. She has a message to deliver.

The Lord of Light rarely speaks to her directly as he did tonight, with a surge of power that she felt all the way across Westeros deep within her bones, and Melisandre hardly dares to imagine the kind of sacrifice that had been needed to bolster her own abilities the way they have been.

And yet, the sacrifice had to be made for it is only through this increase in her own sight that the truth has finally revealed itself through her.

Stannis Baratheon turns his head back around to face her from where he’s been staring thoughtfully into the flames.

"You are certain of this?" he asks, not angry, not yet, but with an underlying edge of ungiving steel and Melisandre knows, understands now, that Stannis knows just as well what this discovery means as she does — sees the choice he must now make and the path he will have to walk as clearly as she does — as she always knew he would, eventually.

"The flames are not always easy to read, but they do not lie," she confirms with all the weight the announcement deserves. "Your brother, King Robert Baratheon, First of his Name, was killed by none other than your nephew Joffrey, acknowledged heir to the Iron Throne."

Shadows flicker across Stannis Baratheon’s face, and in this moment he looks both older and younger than she has ever seen him, timeless and inevitable like the fate her Lord has foreseen for him.

"And what would you have me do with that knowledge, Lady Melisandre?"

If it is a test, it is one of the easiest Melisandre has ever undergone. "I am but the messenger, my Lord. I can no more tell you what to do than I can tell you how to do it. The choice is yours, my lord, as it should be."

Stannis closes his eyes and Melisandre feels herself drawn into this moment against her will, inexplicably fascinated by this long-foretold choice. So few of the living ever know the importance of a decision until it has long been made and they’re confronted with the consequences — this is different. This is history and destiny at once, the beginning of the last chapter before the long night’s inevitable arrival.

"If what you speak is true…" Stannis opens his eyes and for all the faith she has in her Lord, this is the first time Melisandre truly sees the king in him. "Then House Baratheon will not suffer a traitor and kingslayer on the Iron Throne."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of you probably saw Oldtown's fate coming, but hey, maybe I did manage to catch one or two of you off-guard. And isn't it fun to imagine all the repercussions from this event alone? And I'm not even talking about Melisandre's visions there, though those too spell trouble for the realm...  
Joffrey's part turned a bit (read: a lot) longer than I'd expected, thus Harry's own part was cut short in this chapter. But I did want to give you a better insight on how Joff's coping with the entire situation and his current motivations in how he handles the Starks.  
And look, it hasn't even been a month since the last update, so I hope this chapter was a pleasant surprise and that you had fun reading it! If you have the time, please take a moment and let me know what you think about these events in the comments. Have a great day, everyone!
> 
> Limited POV: _Joffrey doesn't know it was Cersei and Tyrion that tricked the Starks into coming to King's Landing; also I interpret Melisandre's power as her literally having the ability to see occurrences in the flames, thus she (and consequently Stannis) knows that Joffrey killed Robert but not why, i.e. not that Joffrey isn't Robert's trueborn son_


	27. part vii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "_Nothing would make me happier_."
> 
> In which Joffrey tries to make a friend, Harry does not deal with all his issues but at least he starts facing one of them and Clegane has more sense than the entire court, not that that should come as a surprise to anyone.

_296 AC_

{ _King’s Landing_ }

Sansa adores King’s Landing. The large gardens are even more beautiful than she imagined — she’s never seen flowers of so many different colors in bloom at once. Even the weirwood, though it cannot compare with the one at Winterfell in her opinion, is breathtaking. Sansa can spend hours walking down the various paths, admiring the views and enjoying the warm air of the South.

Spending time with the younger princesses is also much more enjoyable than Sansa, who is used to having to deal with Arya’s antics, expected it to be. Granted, it helps that little Gwyneth, who hasn’t seen her fifth nameday yet, is completely enamored with Lady and Nymeria.

Even _Arya_ smiled at the princess the other day at seeing her genuine enthusiasm for the direwolves — and Arya has already decided she hates every single lady at court. Of course Gwyneth is about as far from a lady as you can get, but Sansa is determined to ignore that. She’s seen Queen Cersei Lannister defend her youngest daughter in an anything-but-casual conversation with Ladies Bensworth and Waymer, she’s not interested in becoming the focus of that cold, composed ire.

The king mother is beautiful, but she wields her fury like a dagger — and with terrifying, merciless efficiency.

As much as Sansa enjoys Gywenth’s relentless energy, it’s Princess Myrcella’s company she truly appreciates. Myrcella is quieter, shier than her sister, but she although she is still quite a bit younger than Sansa, she is so genuine and kind Sansa can’t help but like her. In addition, Myrcella likes to show her around the Red Keep and all its hidden gems, from the prettiest blossoms in the inner garden to the most beautiful portrait on the fourth floor.

The only one from the royal family Sansa hasn’t spent much time with is Prince Joffrey. It saddens her a little because the prince is very handsome and well-mannered and has even asked Sansa a few questions during their welcoming dinner, and Sansa enjoys being able to talk to a boy without Robb glaring at him over her shoulder and Theon and Jon making faces behind the boy’s back. Seriously, those two can’t stand each other, but the moment Sansa smiles at a boy, suddenly they have each other’s backs. It’s maddening. And it doesn’t help in the least that Mother and Father always smile indulgently when Sansa complains, like she’s just being silly.

Ever since that first dinner though, Joffrey hasn’t joined them for any meals. Not even the ones Queen Cersei and her daughters attended. It took Sansa three days to work up the courage and ask Princess Myrcella why her brother isn’t joining them, only to receive a negligent wave and a simple, "Joffrey’s busy. He’s always busy since Father died and Elyanna disappeared."

Sansa was caught off-guard by the casual mention of the late king and missing princess — not to mention the fact that at home Robb always ate with them in the evenings, unless he was on a hunt or traveling with Father, no matter how busy his heir duties kept him. Then again, she’d reasoned later, Robb might be the heir of a Great House, but he wasn’t going to become king in a few moon-turns time.

Still, it seems sad. And not just because Sansa would like to spend more time with the prince, but because he also never seems to spend any time with his sisters. Sansa wouldn’t say she’s very close with her siblings — they spend most of their time annoying her, especially Arya and Bran — but Robb always asks after the scarves Sansa stitches or the dresses she sews. And sometimes Bran sneaks her lemon cakes from the kitchen and shares them with her when she’s in a bad mood, even if it’s mostly in apology for upsetting her in the first place. And Arya, well. They spent most of their time arguing, but they’re always with each other and around each other.

[Unless Arya is exploring the Red Keep with Bran or attending the lessons Father arranged for her when it predictably became clear that keeping Arya occupied in a castle without getting into the way of the servants’ work would be impossible without some activity to balance her out. Sansa would’ve expected her sister to choose riding instead, but she seems very happy with her dancing instructor. Which is surprising considering how many complaints Sansa has had to endure over the past two years every time Septa Mordane arranged similar lessons for them. Then again, Arya doesn’t get along with Septa Mordane — a different teacher might be just what she needs.

Sansa certainly hopes so. She’s tired of having to constantly watch not just herself but her siblings’ behavior as well.]

Right now, they’re in one of the private gardens reserved for the royal family. Bran, Myrcella Gwyneth and Summer are running around in between the bushes, playing a game whose rules seem to change every time Sansa catches sight of them. Arya and Nymeria are nowhere to be seen, which means there’ll be trouble soon. But until it happens, Sansa is content to enjoy a peaceful afternoon in the sun.

It’s therefore an unexpected, though delightful surprise when Lady, who has been dozing at her feet, suddenly perks up. Sansa turns, curious to see what has caught her direwolf’s attention, and is entirely unprepared to see Prince Joffrey of all people approaching her.

"I’m sorry to disturb you, my lady." He gives Lady a considering glance before coming to a halt a few steps away from her.

Sansa hastily rises to her feet and thanks the Old Gods and the New that Arya isn’t around to make fun off her for the traitorous blush she can feel spreading on her burning cheeks. It’s not her fault Prince Joffrey looks even more handsome in just simple dark red coat with the sigil of House Baratheon stitched in golden thread right above his heart.

"I-It’s no problem, your grace." She curtseys and hopes her voice doesn’t sound as faint as she thinks it does. "Are you looking for your sisters?"

Naturally, there’s no sign of Myrcella, Gwyneth or even Bran, but Sansa is sure she can point him into the right direction at least. Hopefully without making a fool of herself.

"No. I’m sure my mother is keeping an eye on them." The prince laughs lightly and Sansa is taken aback by the difference the simple gesture makes. Joffrey’s green eyes lighten a shade or two and the tense muscles around his eyes ease up and soften his entire face. Like this, hair glinting in the sunlight, a light flush on his pale cheeks, Joffrey looks beautiful. Not unlike a painting or statute out of the Red Keep’s many hallways come to life. "I was actually looking for you, my lady. Is this a bad time?"

"Oh. _Oh_. No, of course not, your grace." Sansa shakes her head — though not too fast, so as not dislodge the flower crown Gwyneth has gifted her. She feverishly hopes Myrcella wasn’t lying when she promised the daisies look beautiful woven into her red hair.

"In that case, would you care to accompany me for a walk?"

"It would be my pleasure, your grace." Sansa gladly takes the arm Prince Joffrey offers her, delighted by this turn of events.

"Is there anything in particular you would like to see?" Prince Joffrey asks after a moment of silence that Sansa spends desperately scrambling for something to say. [There’s so many questions she would like to ask, but most of them are the kind only Arya would be bold enough to blurt out — the kind that isn’t appropriate and a prince should not have to endure, least of all from her. No one ever said Sansa isn’t _curious _about the missing princess, after all. She simply knows better than to come out and ask.]

"Not at all, where ever you prefer, your grace. I don’t think I have found a single place in the Keep yet that doesn’t take my breath away." Sansa laughs lightly.

"Because of its sights or because of the smell?" The prince asks and the comment is so unexpected, uttered in such an utterly dry voice, that Sansa almost loses her footing in surprise. She’s still blinking up at Prince Joffrey in stunned surprise when he grins sheepishly at her. "Apologies. I spoke out of turn."

"It’s fine." Sansa waves off immediately and it is. Certainly no worse than a lot of things her brothers have said over the years — or Arya muttered yesterday during dinner. Her assurance does little to ease the awkward tension in the air though. "Your sister, Princess Myrcella, mentioned you were busy these last few days," Sansa finally settles on as Prince Joffrey leads them through one of the smaller gates into the weirwood. "Has something happened?"

"You could say that." Joffrey chuckles, though going by the way his arm muscles tense Sansa can tell that it’s not a gesture of amusement. For a moment, Sansa thinks he’ll let the conversation run dry like this, but then he continues in a quiet, solemn tone. "A few days ago we received word that Oldtown has burned down. I’m sure you must have heard of it."

Sansa has. It would’ve been almost impossible not to, considering it’s all the court has been talking about. Even Father, who usually pays no heed to gossip, has been inquiring and frowning more than usual.

It makes Sansa feel silly because even though she’s heard the whispers — "_No survivors_" and "_Cursed fire_" and quieter, a secret only shared behind closed doors: "_Wildfire_" — and has even witnessed the arrival of few of the messengers the Tyrells have sent, it hasn’t occurred to her until now that _of course_ the terrible fate of Oldtown would keep the prince — king in all but name — busy. 

It’s just— Sansa has never seen Oldtown. Has never seen a great many of cities in Westeros. And even though she is geographically closer to the Reach than she’s ever been, it still feels far away. A tragedy, sure, but not a _personal_ one.

"I did," Sansa murmurs, far too late to cover the long pause. Prince Joffrey doesn’t seem to mind though. He quirks his lip up into something that resembles a smile, a little. If you only look at it out of the corner of your eyes.

"I thought so." A sigh, barely audible and all the heavier for it. Sansa’s heart clenches at the sound of it. She’s pretty sure a prince isn’t supposed to appear so— lonely. "Forgive me, my lady. I do seem quite incapable of not ruining the mood."

"No, no, it’s quite alright, your grace. If the greatest tragedy the Kingdom of the Reach has ever suffered is no excuse for your poor mood nothing will be," Sansa is quick to assure him. "Although, if I may ask, are we being followed?"

She means to take his mind of his duties, though from the way the Prince’s eyes flicker first to the tall, incredibly broad man that’s always remaining just barely out of sight and then continue on to a little boy collecting berries a few paces away and on towards the gardener in the furthest corner, cutting the bushes it works a little too well.

At least Prince Joffrey’s smile turns wry, which is a great improvement from his previous bitterness in Sansa’s opinion. "Of course we are. Neither the Hound nor my mother would stand for anything less."

"The hound?"

Joffrey gestures towards the heavy-footed man that Sansa first noticed. When she next catches sight of his grotesque face — half its skin twisted and melted, as though someone tried to burn it off — Sansa realizes that she does in fact recognize him. He’s been guarding the prince’s back during their first meeting and the subsequent meal as well.

"My sworn sword," Joffrey explains. "His name is Sandor Clegane. But don’t call him that."

Sansa furrows her eyebrows and determinedly suppresses a shudder, even as a small voice in the back of her head that sounds far too much like Arya for her comfort wonders what happened to the man’s face. "Why not?"

"He doesn’t like it."

Sansa waits for the prince to continue his explanation but he doesn’t. Instead he subtly tilts his head towards the gardener.

"That one’s my mother’s. One of her favorite spies too, I think. The one we ran into at the entrance serves Littlefinger and I’m not sure about the boy, but most children sing for Varys sooner or later."

"Spy?" Sansa exclaims, a bit too loud if the prince’s wince is anything to go by. She flushes and ducks her head, but thankfully Joffrey doesn’t seem too upset. Merely— surprised.

"Well, yes." The prince tilts his head and like this his green eyes look so sharp, Sansa is sure he can see straight through her. "You’re at the Red Keep, the center of all the trade and intrigue in the Seven Kingdoms, my lady. Knowledge is the most valuable currency this city runs on and everyone, from the kitchen boys to the court ladies, serves one master or another. Always assume that every conversation you have and every secret you share is overheard and sold by someone else."

Sansa— stares. At this prince, who is younger than Robb or Theon, yet appears so much older than his approaching nameday would suggest. Mother always says that people in the South age slower — _live softer_, as Father called it — but Sansa is starting to think that might not be true. Maybe they just age differently.

"That’s terrible," she finally says, thoughtlessly like she always accuses Arya of speaking, and even though she regrets saying the words she can’t bring herself to apologize for them, to try and take them back.

Prince Joffrey smiles, bright and tragic, and turns her gently, oh so gently, to the left by her elbow.

"Welcome to King’s Landing." He makes a wide, sweeping gesture and it’s only then that Sansa realizes they’ve reached a part of the gardens she’s never been to before. In front of them the lush trees part to reveal a clear view over the sea, that stretches itself out in front of King’s Landing, endless water in different hues of blue as far as Sansa can see. Far below them, she can see the waves crashing against the cliffs, can even make out parts of the city’s port, a few ships.

It’s beautiful.

Prince Joffrey’s smile warms when she tells him as much.

"I thought you might like it, my lady," he murmurs and doesn’t comment on her stupid blush that refuses to die down. Sansa doesn’t understand why her stomach feels a bit like its dropping through the bottom of her stomach, but she thinks this may be what love feels like.

Later that evening, when Father asks to speak in private to her to discuss how she would feel about a betrothal between her and Prince Joffrey, Sansa smiles so wide her cheeks hurt and says the only thing she can say: "_Nothing would make me happier_."

* * *

{ _On the road _}

They pack up their camp in the early morning and continue their slow travel towards Dragonstone. It’s not that large a distance to cross if you’re in a hurry. But Jaime, ever the over-protective bodyguard, places their safety over efficiency. [It’s not paranoia when the entire realm is still on the look-out for a missing princess, Harry has to give him that. Besides they might be by-passing King’s Landing for the most part, but their route still leads them straight through the Kingswood and past Stonedance. It’s the closest they’ve come to the Red Keep since they’ve fled the castle.] Thus they avoid the direct route and well-travelled roads, take small, winding paths that leads them through thick forests and endless, uninhabited grass planes instead.

Usually, Harry doesn’t mind.

They’ll reach Dragonstone sooner rather than later, a couple more days won’t make a difference.

Besides getting caught would cost them more time – not to mention is liable to get people killed and tip a whole lot more off to their movements. [If there’s one thing about the Red Keep Harry doesn’t miss it’s that everyone is always watching you. There’s no secrets, only a question of how long you can keep something quiet before the inevitable discovery of the truth. Or who will be the one to discover it first and how they will use the information against you — never if, always how.] It's been a good three months since Jaime's supposed death and Elyanna's disappearance. Most people probably that believe Elyanna dead at this point — beyond the family that is — but it’s dangerous to rely on such an assumption. The scandal of a disappearing princess on the same eve as the king’s death, that’s the sort of rumor that isn’t easily forgotten. Harry already has enough issues keeping his head straight as it is, the last thing he needs is a price on his head.

And honestly, the status quo is how Harry prefers Elyanna of House Baratheon: dead in the mind of her people — and preferably his own. [<strike>If only it were that easy</strike>.]

"So. Are we going to talk about it?" Jaime interrupts the easy silence.

"Talk about what?"

Harry would turn around and throw the man a questioning look, but he's learned early on in their travels that taking his eyes off the ground when they're this deep in the undergrowth is just asking for a face-first close-up with a tree branch. And on a more memorable occasion the ground. His grip around the reins tightens reflexively.

"About whatever it is that has you in such a great mood today." Jaime is raising his eyebrows, Harry can hear it in his voice.

[It’s a very expressive voice, alright? Also he’s literally spent the past three months in close company with the man. He can differentiate between fifteen silences of Jaime that each mean something different.]

"My mood isn’t that great."

See, that silence? That is Jaime’s level two judgmental silence right there.

"You’re humming," Jaime deadpans a moment later.

Which, huh. Now that Harry’s paying attention, he _is_. How about that? Still that’s no reason to give in. He wouldn’t want to give Jaime ideas.

"So?" A casual shrug. "I hum all the time."

"_Eli_."

There’s the level of fond exasperation reserved entirely for _her_. Harry strives to reach that point at least five times a day. Hey, it’s only for the best, she doesn’t want Jaime to get too comfortable. An idle mind is the devil’s playground and all that.

[Though now that he thinks about it, he’s eighty percent sure Hermione meant exclusively _Harry_’s idle mind. She’d gotten very frustrated with his tendency to provoke fights, back after the war against Voldemort ended and before they started the hunts, when they were stuck at Hogwarts pretending they weren’t traumatized child soldiers playing at being students and bored out of their minds.]

"Sorry." It’s more reflex than genuine apology, but Jaime leaves it at that.

"So are we talking about it now?"

…or not.

"Seriously?" Harry sighs. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk about it, it’s more that he’s not sure what Jaime wants from him. There’s no particular reason for his good mood. None that he can put into words at least.

[Well, there is that odd dream of Luna and that empty room that still came across as cramped and the flames that danced to Harry’s tune simply because he _willed_ _it_ so. There is the surge of magic that Harry has felt, strong enough to jerk him awake and leave him almost high with the elation, the sheer _power_ it contained. That he can still taste in the air. There’s the looseness Harry feels in his chest, where before a knot had formed that kept tightening with every passing day, so slowly he hadn’t noticed.]

"No particular reason," Harry settles on because it’s true. "I just have this feeling, like something good is going to happen." _Or already did_.

"That would be a first." Jaime snorts, pats his horse affectionately. "It wouldn’t be your posture that’s finally gonna stop giving me nightmares, would it?"

Harry giggles at the dry sarcasm that Jaime’s been leveling at her more and more often. Maybe because she’s older — much older than her uncle thinks — and grasps it better. Or maybe Ser Jaime is lonely. He must miss Mother, Joffrey and the girls as much, if not more than Harry herself does.

"I make no promises!" she calls out, solely because it will amuse Jaime and ignores the way her chest seizes up for a moment when a stray ray of sunlight breaks through the leaves and breaks on the golden handle of Ser Jaime’s sword.

* * *

By the time they make camp, Harry’s light mood has dissipated, leaves him somewhere between thoughtful, hollowed out and numb. It’s not— Nothing bad happens during the hours they spent traveling. Not really.

Jaime even tells a few stories of his travels during the last couple of years and some of the more interesting encounters he’s had on them. But partway through a story of a robbery gone very, very wrong — for the robbers, that is — Harry spaces out.

When he stares far off into the distance, not that he can see very far in the middle of a forest, not looking at anything in particular, Harry can picture it. She’s seen Ser Jaime fight countless times, not just in flashy tournaments but training spars, both as the teacher and the one being taught. His regular sessions with Ser Barristan in particular were a joy to watch — all that talent, all that tightly coiled violence, ready to spring, fueling a dance as elegant as it is deadly.

Harry remembers those fights, remembers the light in Joffrey’s eyes, the displeased downturn in Father’s lips — always itching for another battle his station didn’t allow him — the thrill of watching and knowing that, for all the participants skill, someone could all too easily lose a limb or their life even in a fight as contained as this.

It was beautiful and exhilarating and for most of her youth, Harry wanted nothing more than to be a part of it. That dream faded over the years, as her body continued to fail her in more ways than one and Harry grew tired of clinging to it. But she never stopped watching the spars. Never stopped coming to the training yard, not just to observe Joffrey’s progress, but to see the fights.

[Some nights Harry still wakes up soaked in sweat, biting his lips so hard he can taste blood on his tongue as the feeling of being trapped, being held down, unable to run, unable to move, his body useless and frail and _weakweakweak_ overwhelms his senses and all he can do is _scream_—]

So when Jaime talks about fighting — his entire face lighting up, body straightening subconsciously — Harry knows what he’s talking about. She can picture it. She can see the scene play out right in front of her.

_She _**_can’t forget_**.

[There is her father, louder than life and so terribly still, motionless on the ground, blood soaking the expensive carpet Mother hates so much, ruining it for good.

<strike>When Elyanna tilts her head to the side, she can still see the blood clinging to Ser Jaime’s sword</strike>.]

Somehow Harry makes it through his lesson with the bow without snapping. Without lashing out, drawing blood where it will hurt the most. It helps that Jarren — it’s easier, always easier to think of him as Jarren when Harry gets into a mood like this — has taken his sword off for better mobility, keeps just his daggers on him. Harry can pretend his stomach doesn’t turn every time he catches sight of the long blade.

And if he’s tenser, his temper shorter than Jarren perhaps deserves, well, that’s just the best Harry can do right now, with these confusing, convoluted emotions wreaking havoc inside him. Jarren feels the shift, that much is obvious from the careful way he’s handling Harry as the lesson progresses. Never touches Harry without warning — he must have caught those minute flinches away from him, of course he did, and it would be so much easier if that realization wasn’t accompanied by a surge of guilt.

Harry <strike>loves</strike> cares for Jarren. The man has done nothing but been open-minded, patient and accommodating. His unquestioning acceptance of everything Harry does and says is a completely new but very welcome experience that soothes bruised parts inside Harry he hadn’t even known were still sore. Elyanna adores her uncle, loves him with all her heart.

That — this complete agreement between the two of them — should make it easier, but it does the opposite: Because Jaime killed Robert. He _killed_ _their father_, whom Elyanna loved, whom Harry could have, maybe did, possibly does love as well.

And Elyanna **hates** him for it. _Harry_ hates him for it.

"Eli?" There’s a lot Jarren manages to put into a single syllable.

"I’m fine."

There’s no heart in the response. Harry can’t afford there to be. It would be far too easy for that heart to turn into rage, into poisonous bitterness and he can’t afford alienating Jarren right now. What’s worse is he has no right to do so.

This is _Elyanna_’s rage. Elyanna’s fury for a betrayal she can’t forgive, yet is forcing herself to let slide. Elyanna lost her father, lost the idea of her uncle, her perfect protector. Harry has no right to be angry with the man for killing someone he didn’t get the chance to know — in defense of the boy he’s beginning to consider a brother no less. It’s a fight he and Jaime need to have, but it’s not one _Harry_ should be fighting. Harry knows that, understands that, but it does nothing to resolve the tangle of feelings in his chest. [Gives him no easy answer to the lingering question inside his mind — _Does this divide really make sense? Aren’t Elyanna and Harry two sides of the same coin?_]

It’s—

Harry doesn’t want to have this fight. And he sure as hell won’t be the one to start it. Not right now, when Jarren and Harry have found a balance they’re comfortable with, have reached an understanding with each other. He’s not jeopardizing that. Especially not when he still isn’t sure how much of that frustration is truly aimed at Jarren and how much is caused by his own struggles in coming to terms who, exactly, he is.

So Harry lowers his gaze when he feels the urge to glower and forces his hands to relax from the fists they’ve curled into and he shakes his head.

"I’m fine," he repeats and although neither of them believe it, Jarren lets it go for the time being. Focuses on correcting Harry’s stance instead.

* * *

It’s a testament to the amount of tension lingering unaddressed between the two of them, that Jarren cuts Harry’s lesson short for the first time and disappears between the trees to hunt. Harry finds caught between the desire to call out for the man and the relief to finally be alone with his thoughts.

Twirling two arrows around his hands gives his restless fingers something to do while Harry contemplates the situation. It’s not just the unacknowledged animosity towards Jarren, for all the considerable help the man’s been, that’s bothering Harry. It’s the dreams that have been haunting him lately as well. Dreams that are always a bit more vivid, feel a bit more real than he’s comfortable with, even as they fade from his mind upon waking. Dreams of Luna’s cold eyes and the eager smile on her lips that Harry saw the day he died.

As far as Harry can tell, Westeros isn’t just an alternate dimension or takes place in a different time from his former life. It’s a completely different world — filled with magic, with power, yes, but without any signs of an existing Wizarding Society that Harry has discovered so far. [And he’s spent a lot of time on those first few days searching.] The likelihood of anyone from his former life following him here, reaching for him, even if it’s just inside his dreams is _astronomically_ small. The fact that it’s Luna of all people who’s managed it, well.

'Alarming' doesn’t feel like a strong enough word to encompass how Harry feels about that. Especially since he can’t tell what it is she wants from him.

And even disregarding all those issues, every passing day Harry and Jarren move closer towards Dragonstone. A few more days, and even with all the breaks and round-about routes they’re taking they will reach Sharp Point. From there it’s only a question of how they’ll get onto a ship to Dragonstone and then they’ll be there.

Harry can’t decide how he feels about that. On the one hand, the end of their wild goose-chase is in sight, but on the other hand— reaching Dragonstone will, in all likelihood, lead to Harry declaring war on an ancient blood ritual site. How fun. And that’s not even covering the fact that, should he survive that madness, Harry will return _home_.

To King’s Landing. To Joffrey. To Mother and Myrcella and Gwyneth. To the castle in which Jaime murdered her father. The castle that holds years of memories. Of her loved ones, but also of all the years she spent wasting away.

Oh well. Murderous blood rituals first, conflicting emotions second. That’s Harry’s mantra anyway. Considering what little he remembers from his miserable encounter with blood magic in the Citadel, he might not ever have to worry about that second part. Silver linings, right?

Closing his eyes, Harry focuses on evening out his breathing. If you study for a mastery — or even take the higher classes in Arithmancy or Ancient Runes at Hogwarts — you’re bound to learn at least a hand-full of cleansing rituals and their most important components. The constellations that are the most useful and the ones that will only hinder your efforts, the kind of plants that will help you diffuse or augment the lingering magic, as well as the simplest of calculations that should be taken in consideration when planning the kind of insane suicidal move Harry is currently contemplating. There’s probably hundreds of ways to disarm a ritual site, each with its own risks and advantages. You could spent an entire lifetime studying them.

If you join the aurors on the other hand — if it’s assumed that any ritual site you stumble upon is part of a trap meant to kill you, if there’s no time to check the position of the stars or read up in the library which type of salt is best suited to purify blood magic as opposed to black magic — they don’t teach you equations and theorems. They teach you the quick and dirty way to _get the job done_ and live to inform your superior about it.

And the simplest truth regarding magic is: Willpower makes up for a lot. The muggle saying '_Faith can move mountains_' didn’t come from nowhere anymore than the tale of Sleeping Beauty did. In other words, what Harry needs is strength of will, the ability to conduct the collected magic through his body to repurpose it — and a shit ton of luck. Of those three things, it’s really just the second one that he can actively prepare for.

Harry exhales. Concentrates on letting go of any lingering tension. Inhales. Thinks of nothing but the rhythmic twirling of the arrows around his fingers. Exhales. Inhales. Exhales. Inhales. Exhales—

Harry opens his eyes to the simultaneous sight of the arrows dancing around his fingers — he’s so gonna be ready to throw them soon — and the overlapping picture of the face of a girl looking back at him.

It’s his own face, his _current_ face but not. The girl has long, thin hair that falls limply into her face and is paler than Harry can ever remember being. Her thin face gives him flashbacks to the little kids the pulled out of the cellar of Hardwin Manor and her eyes look tired.

Harry doesn’t wait for the girl to acknowledge him — there’s no point. _Inhale_. Instead he turns inwards, looks deeper.

The face opposing him is male, broader and older, though still eerily similar to the girl’s, now that Harry sees them in quick succession. There’s an ugly scar burned through the male’s left eyebrow leading all the way down to his cheekbone and a wide smile on his lips that is nothing less than a threat. His eyes hold the same shade of green as the girls, but his aren’t weighted down by exhaustion, instead they are alight with flames that burn so brightly it hurts to look at.

Harry doesn’t pay the male any more mind than he did the girl, knows better than to get distracted by illusions pitted against him by his own mind. _Exhale_.

_Deeper_.

When his old instructor during auror training first told Harry to center himself and find his magical core, Harry pictured a literal core. Something not unlike a second heart, beating alongside the fleshy one inside his chest and pumping magic through his veins. This misconception led to months of struggle with this fairly simple exercise because even when Harry got a clear look at his magic, it didn’t appear in a shape he expected and thus he didn’t understand what he was looking at.

The reality of Harry’s magic is not a second circulatory system, if anything Harry would compare the neural pathways that enable him to channel magic to a map of the London underground train stations. While the center part of the city — or correspondingly Harry’s upper body — is better developed than the outer parts — also known as his extremities — there’s no one definite center-point, nor is the flow of magic fully circular. _Approximately_ circular, but not fully. Not to mention that the neural system does not run on a closed-loop. It’s technically a separate entity in the sense that it is self-sufficient, so long as the body itself is appropriately cared for, but it’s also in constant contact and exchange with its surroundings.

_Deeper._

Honestly, now that Harry thinks about it, he’s curious to see how this new world affects his magic. The difference in power levels he’s been experiencing can’t come from nowhere.

_Deep_— _There!_

Harry does the equivalent of blinking with closed eyes and— stares.

Arrows clatter from suddenly slack hands to the ground, not that he notices.

Logically speaking, Harry has been reincarnated in a new world that may not just differ in social and technological but magical aspects as well from the one he’s used to. His body has also spent the better part of its life in a cursed castle, slowly being bled dry of its magic. That he’s then taken an impromptu trip onto a blood magic site without proper preparations or protection, thus violently overloading his entire nervous system, is just the icing on the cake. Taking all these circumstances into consideration, Harry probably should have expected the mess that greets him. But the sheer extend of the damage — entire pathways _burned out_ to the point where there’s nothing left to reconnect them, some frayed, withered or stunted by lack of usage, others bruised, frayed or swollen shut from overexertion — feels less like a bucket of ice water to the face and more like a dagger ripping his stomach open.

_Fuck_, Harry breathes for lack of anything else to say. _Fuck, this looks bad_, yes. But also _Fuck, he’s been an idiot_.

Harry has felt so much better, has constantly observed his physical health improving and yet it never occurred to him to check on his magic’s progress. It’s really no wonder he’s struggling with the strength of his spells — he’s doing the magical equivalent of attempting to stitch a complicated pattern without any fine motor skills at his disposal. His system is so busy repairing enough of the damage to remain functional, there’s no left-over energy to put into delicacies like that.

Harry swallows the bile he can feel rising in his throat — a disconcerting sensation when he’s so deeply buried within his subconsciousness — and exhales again. _Don’t worry_, he tells himself. _It’s bad, sure, but it’s nothing we can’t fix_.

[He hopes.]

With a prayer to a deity he doesn’t believe in and a lot of curses on his tongue, Harry bites his lip and gets to work.

* * *

{ _King’s Landing_ }

The moment the door to his private meeting chamber falls shut behind Lord Stark, Joffrey feels the smile drop from his lips as though the strain of holding up the corners of his mouth has finally become too much effort. It’s not that Joffrey has a problem with the man. Eddard Stark does seem to live up to his reputation so far — though whether or not that’s a good thing remains to be seen.

Joffrey’s of the opinion that honest people don’t last long in the Red Keep, though his mother’s attitude and beliefs are probably in large part to blame for that. Still. Considering Lord Stark is about as honest as a man gets — and what does it say about men that even Lord Stark has a bastard son? — it will be interesting to see how he fares.

And now that he is officially betrothed to Sansa Stark, Joffrey will have plenty of time to observe Lord Stark, who has agreed to remain in King’s Landing until Joffrey’s coronation and — hopefully — his marriage.

It’s an odd thought to consider that Joffrey is betrothed now. To a _Stark_ of all people. He dearly hopes he’ll have the chance to see Elyanna’s face when she finds out. That would be glorious.

Mother’s reaction, on the other hand, will be decidedly less so. Joffrey’s taken to avoiding her outright even before Lord Stark agreed to the proposal. After his mother made her position on the marriage very clear the moment the news first reached her ears — far too early for comfort — Joffrey considers a preemptive measure to preserve the peace within the Red Keep. Or at least to preserve the Red Keep. It wouldn’t do for the two of them to burn it down before Elyanna has the chance to come back and meet his betrothed. Which is another thing to look forward to. Joffrey’s genuinely curious what his sister will think of Sansa.

[Not much, knowing her, but it would be nice to know for sure.]

He must have asked himself that question out loud because Clegane snorts. Loudly. "The little fury’s gonna eat that pretty, little bird alive and spit out her bones with a smile."

Well. Joffrey can’t say he disagrees. "Don’t I know it."

It’s not even that Sansa is terrible or overly annoying. It’s just that it takes _effort_ to be kind and thoughtful and pay attention to a person’s likes and interests. Sort of like when Joffrey was younger and Elyanna and he made a game out of remembering every servant’s name. That took time and attention — it was work. People are a lot like that and Joffrey has long since learned that most of them aren’t worth the work it takes to establish a relationship with them.

"Quit your whinging, princeling," Clegane rumbles. "Least your wife’ll be pretty to look at. And ain’t trying to stab you in the back."

Joffrey sighs. That’s a good point. Marriages have been built on worse than dreams and sweet pretenses. Then again— well, look how well that worked out for the former king and queen.

"You’re right," Joffrey acknowledges nevertheless. "I suppose I simply never saw myself getting betrothed without Elyanna right there by my side."

_I miss her_, he doesn’t say because the ache he feels every time those words pass by his lips doesn’t get any easier to bear with repetition.

Clegane scoffs. "She’d mock you so bad for that self-pity you’re drowning in, you’d throw her out of the Keep before she’d have made it back to her chambers."

Joffrey winces. It’s almost scary how right that sounds.

"I hate you." He rubs his temples with a groan. "Don’t you have better things to do than bothering me?"

Clegane doesn’t dignify that with a response, but his stony silence is taking on a decidedly judging air.

"…just tell one of the kitchen boys to serve dinner to my room tonight. I’ve got treaties to review and Tyrells to pacify," Joffrey mutters eventually and tries to convince himself that he isn’t pouting. It’s a work in progress.

* * *

{ _King’s Landing_ }

Petyr Baelish is a very dangerous, highly intelligent man and anyone possessing even a smidge of common sense knows that. [Petyr Baelish, after all, was born to a meaningless family with little in the name of power, money or lands. He came from nothing and for all that the lords and ladies surrounding him seem incapable of forgetting his lower birth, they can’t quite seem to grasp what it means for him to have risen to one of the most powerful positions in the Seven Kingdoms either.]

He is therefore — among other things — perfectly capable of figuring out when he’s wanted and when not. Though in his current situation, Petyr really can’t take all the credit. Ned Stark is making absolutely no effort to hide his disdain towards him. It chafes at him when Petyr allows himself to think of it for too long. Reminds him of that look in Brandon Stark’s eyes when Petyr challenged him.

[Not worthy of fighting. Not worthy of being recognized as a real opponent. Not even worthy of being killed. <strike>They would regret that. He would _make_ them regret that</strike>.]

Ned Stark is a Stark through and through and Petyr despises him for it. That is not to say that Ned Stark doesn’t have his uses. An honorable man well-known for keeping his word — if not his wedding vow — is, after all, a pawn much easier to predict than most men.

Petyr likes chaos, thrives in chaos, that is most certainly true. But it’s _his_ chaos, the kind he causes and foresees and takes advantage of. Like all highly intelligent men, Petyr does not appreciate being taken by surprise. And Ned Stark is an insurance of sorts.

It wouldn’t do to let Robert Baratheon’s not unanticipated, much welcome demise go to waste, after all.

Ned Stark, who until now has kept up an admirable act of pretending not to notice Petyr’s presence — he does wonder how Cat handles this side of her dour husband, she’s never done well with being overlooked — sighs deeply and finally puts his quill down.

"May I help you, Lord Baelish?"

It’s all too easy to smile in response. Petyr could stand to see that long-suffering expression on the man’s face more often.

"Actually, I was just about to make you the same offer, Lord Stark." If there’s one thing life has taught Petyr, it’s that everyone needs the kind of help he offers sooner or later. And that he always wins in those deals, if only because Petyr doesn’t make a bargain in which he doesn’t have the most to gain and the least to lose.

Sooner or later, Ned Stark will come to that same realization — and Petyr wants the northman to think of him first when it comes to that. No way is he letting Varys snap up this potential goldmine too. The eunuch already has too much influence on the young king as far as Petyr is concerned.

"Thank you for the offer, Lord Baelish, but I’m afraid there’s nothing I require your help with." Ned Stark’s voice drips with impatience. "Now, as you can see I’m very busy."

"Of course." Petyr rises, genial smile still firmly on his lips. "I wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome. I understand you must have much to do with all that unpleasant business the king had in Oldtown."

"I’m surprised, Lord Baelish. I didn’t consider you much of a friend of the Citadel."

That makes for a surprisingly astute observation from the man who still doesn’t seem to have figured out that Cersei Lannister is determined to slit his pretty, little daughter’s throat if he doesn’t get her out of the city quick enough.

"All loss of life is a tragedy." All previous amusement has drained from Petyr’s face, as is only fitting, considering the subject. From the hint of a frown between Lord Stark’s eyebrows though, he’s not convinced. Perhaps he is better suited for life in King’s Landing than Petyr’s given him credit for. "And there’s little money gained in pointless slaughter, Lord Stark. I fear I simply do not have the taste for it."

Ned Stark hums. "What did you mean by 'unpleasant business _the king_ had Oldown'?" He’s fixing Petyr with narrowed eyes that gleam with an unexpected edge of sharp suspicion.

Right. Perhaps this is a necessary reminder that, for all his lack of tact and social grace, Ned Stark isn’t one of the simpering buffoons that so often seek better fortunes and glory in King’s Landing. He needs a different approach. Needs to be handled with caution. [A quiet wolf makes for a great hunter.]

Petyr resolves to remember that, though he takes great care not to let any of those thoughts on his face. It wouldn’t do to overplay his hand this early in the game.

"Nothing, Lord Stark. I apologize, I shouldn’t have spoken so thoughtlessly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo. Harry's finally adressing the issue between him and Jaime that's been up in the air for seven chapters now. Even if all he does is avoiding it, it's a step forward, right? Also Joffrey's trying to make a friend. Which, keep in mind the only people Joffrey is used to socialize in his own age is Elyanna. So while Sansa wears her rose-tinted glasses, Joffrey doesn't quite manage to fit the fairytale she's imagining in her head and it shows. Doesn't mean she doesn't still have a crush on him.  
Considering Clegane barely ever says a word, I'm growing weirdly fond of his character. I'm still not sure where his story's gonna lead this time, but he'll probably become more important once we get to this 'verse's equivalent of Season 2.  
In other news, I think there's only one more scene left on Harry's side of things before we reach Dragonstone, so expect the next 1-2 chapters to be very King's Landing heavy - because plot. And that's enough babbling from my side, hope you enjoy this unexpectedly quick update! ;) And if you have the time, please let me know what you think in a comment!


	28. part viii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "_Your instincts truly are a monstrous thing, Harry Potter._"
> 
> In which Ned asks the wrong questions, Harry snaps at the wrong person, Cersei takes her frustration out on the wrong target and Luna picks the wrong time for another appearance. _Oh dear_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** This chapter includes the reliving of traumatic memories, some disturbing imaginary and slight body horror (I guess?). Nothing too graphic because I suck at that, but if these are triggers for you, maybe check in with me first or skip the scenes that play in { _Elsewhere_ }, especially the third.

_296 AC_

{_ King’s Landing _}

"Ned!" Jon Arryn greets him with more warmth Ned has received anywhere since he left the welcoming halls of Winterfell behind. "It’s been too long."

"It wouldn’t have to be if you didn’t lock yourself away in your tower," Ned comments, his smile softening the sting in his words. Returns Jon’s one-armed hug just as tightly and feels some of the ever-present tension between his shoulder blades ease. They may not be bound by blood, but for all the years that have passed since they last saw each other, the ties between them remain just as strong, if not stronger. One cannot fight a war together — for each other — without establishing such a bond. "I’ve been in King’s Landing for more than half a moon-turn now and I’ve barely caught sight of you. I’d begun to think you were avoiding me."

Jon chuckles. His grey hair has thinned out since the last time Ned’s seen him and the weight of his duties lingers around him, pulls his broad shoulders down. But his eyes are alight with life still, a credit to the burning spirit encased inside the ever-aging shell.

[Ned’s heart aches with the knowledge that Jon, not unlike Catelyn’s father, drifts closer to death than life with every passing day. But that day is not today and for now that will have to be enough.]

"A Kingdom doesn’t run itself, Ned. You know that better than most."

Does he ever. Some days, Ned feels like the North is an unshakeable fortress that hold itself up forever, will long outlast him and everyone of his line — never had real need for any of them, for the North is wild and untamed and prevails all on its own. Other days he feels like he’s shepherding an endless sea of terribly thankless, stubborn children and it’s all he can do to keep them alive through the coming winter.

No, Ned is only Lord Protector, but he didn’t envy Robert the Iron Throne when his friend was still alive, nor does he wish to be Hand of the King any more than Jon did when Robert first asked it of him.

"How is the Kingdom? Truly?" Ned can’t help but ask. Jon doesn’t just look tired, he looks exhausted. And for all that Ned has no wish to get dragged into Southern politics, his daughter is betrothed to the future King of Westeros. He doesn’t have the luxury of remaining uninvolved in the crown’s business, not completely.

Jon’s heavy sigh is not encouraging. "Robert— the Seven know I loved him like a son, but he held no love for his title. Prince Joffrey is a sensible boy who takes his duties seriously, but even so the crown will struggle with its debts for a long while yet. To tell you the truth, Ned, I’m thankful for the betrothal with your sweet Sansa. She’ll have a good head on her shoulder and be less inclined towards frivolities than most of the prince’s other options."

Ned inclines his head. He and Catelyn have raised all of their children in preparation of their duties and though Sansa is young and a little naive, she will make for a good wife and — with a little help and encouragement — a good queen as well. Ned is confident in that, else he would not have accepted the arrangement between their houses.

"Have there been news of Oldtown?" he asks after a moment. The court has hardly talked about anything else and the entire city is alight with rumors, but Ned is aware just how scarce information on the tragedy have truly been.

All at once, Jon seems to age ten years. "Not much that you won’t have heard already. The entire Citadel and all its buildings are gone, no exceptions and no survivors. Most of Oldtown has burned to the ground, though some buildings on the outer circles are still standing." Jon clears his throat and takes a sip from his cup. "The rumors regarding no survivors are thankfully an exaggeration, though the truth isn’t much of a comfort. All survivors stem from the outer parts of the city, most have lost their homes and possessions, many were wounded either by the fire or in their haste to flee. It’s early still, but I’ve run over the numbers and I can’t imagine that the Tyrells will attempt to rebuild the city. At least not right now. There’s just not enough left, it will cost too much, not enough people are left and the crown’s means to support them are limited. It doesn’t help that summer will soon come to its end."

"It’s a shame." Ned shakes his head at the thought of all those lives and all that knowledge wasted.

"Yes. A shame." Jon says, but his heart isn’t in it. Instead he’s watching Ned with furrowed eyebrows. "What’s going through your mind, Ned?" his old friend asks a moment later.

Ned hesitates, but Lord Baelish’s words have been weighing on him for several days now. "Lord Baelish mentioned something regarding unpleasant business the king had in Oldtown. Do you know what he might have been referring to?"

Jon’s face does something unpleasant. He closes his eyes for a fraction of a moment and exhales with forced calm, but the muscles in his left cheek twitch, a sure sign of his agitation. It’s not until Ned sees it that he realizes he’s been hoping his friend would lay his worries to rest and tease him for falling for such an obvious ploy.

"The crown had no business in Oldtown," Jon says after a moment, and it’s not Jon Arryn speaking. It’s the Hand of the King.

Ned’s own frown deepens. "May I speak freely?"

Jon tenses for a moment, but then he sinks back into his chair with another sigh. "Of course, Ned." He sounds as tired as he looks. "You can always speak freely in these rooms. It’s outside this door where you have to watch your tongue."

Ned acknowledges the warning and carefully tucks it away to reconsider at a later date. "I’m concerned about what Baelish was trying to imply. I need to understand if I should be concerned about the prince who will marry my daughter or about Baelish for whatever it is he’s trying to accomplish."

"It is my long trusted belief that one should always be concerned about any and all of Petyr Baelish’s machinations. They rarely spell anyone’s good fortune but his own. Nevertheless, we are both fathers and I do understand your worry." Jon folds his hands over his desk and eyes him for a moment.

"Alright. What I tell you now cannot leave this room, Ned. I need your word that you will not tell another living soul what I’m about to tell you."

"You have it."

Slowly Jon unfolds his hands, places them around his cup instead. His gaze lingers on the parchments spread out in front of him for a moment. Then he raises his eyes and meets Ned’s own evenly. "A few weeks before Oldtown burned, the prince withdrew our men from the city. Everyone we could spare was called back to the city."

There’s something that feels not unlike a block of ice taking shape in Ned’s guts, settling in and growing heavier by the moment. "Why?"

Jon shrugs. "The prince refused to give a reason nor did he change his mind, no matter what I and the other members on the Small Council advised. Not even the Tyrells’ insistence could convince him otherwise. Now we can count ourselves lucky for his stubbornness, we lost no more than fifteen men in the fire."

_Lucky_. Ned has never known Jon to be a man who believes in luck.

"You don’t think—" He starts, but can’t bring himself to finish the sentence, not even within the privacy of his own mind.

"The crown has long had good relations with House Tyrell. Little would have been gained by the burning of Oldtown. The entire realm has suffered a great loss that night."

A good response for the Hand of the King, but still little more than pretty words.

"And what could have been gained? What reason, safe for the wrath of the Gods, could anyone have had to burn the largest city of Westeros to the ground?" Ned is careful to keep his voice even, controlled. But the action takes more effort than he’d like. It can’t be helped — the conversation resembles those he’d had back near the end of the reign of the Mad King far more than Ned is comfortable with.

"It is easily forgotten amidst the death and carnage, but Oldtown was the very heart of the Order of Maesters," Jon reminds after a moment, his words too casual as well. "With the loss of the Citadel the maesters have been dealt a blow they may not recover from."

"But what could the Order have done to earn such a fate?" Ned doesn’t pay much attention to the maesters at large — Maester Luwin is certainly a pleasant, hard-working man. Though the Gods know, his late brother Brannon used to have _opinions_ on them.

"Every man, no matter how great, has flaws. Robert had his love for wine, whores and—" _most of all, your sister_, remains unsaid. "His son is calmer, more reasonable and eager to prove himself. But he is his father’s son." Jon wets his lips, but continues after a short pause to order his thoughts. "Joffrey will make a good king, a good husband even. But his greatest weakness is his elder sister Elyanna. He loved her above all else and her loss weighs heavily on him. Even in death, her shadow continues to haunt him."

Ned startles. He hasn’t noticed until now, but this is the first time anyone within these walls calls the missing princess by name. Or says out loud what everyone already thinks — that she is long dead. And maybe it’s this enforced silence on the subject that makes him asks or maybe it’s simple curiosity. "Princess Elyanna, what was she like?"

"She was— kind," Jon says after a moment and it’s that minute hesitation, the way he carefully enunciates the word that makes Ned think it’s not the first thing that came to Jon’s mind. Then his old friend shakes his head as though to get rid off a particularly stubborn thought. "And terribly sick. The Maesters, Grand Maester Pycelle especially, were _uncommonly_ interested in the young princess before her disappearance. I believe it highly unlikely that the prince failed to notice this development. Little that involved the eldest princess has escaped him."

"What about her illness drew attention then?" Ned frowns in thought. "I was given to understand that Elyanna was born early and has always gotten sick more easily, fever and colds more than anything. Those are hardly uncommon."

Jon’s hand around his cup clenches hard enough to let his knuckles shimmer white through the aged skin, but his face gives nothing away. "It does not do to speak ill of the dead, nor is the matter of consequence any longer. Leave it be, Ned. Some things are best left undisturbed."

Ned thinks of a young boy with black hair and dark eyes that look almost purple in the right light, and he cannot help but agree. Nevertheless, another question remains unanswered. "Do you truly believe Prince Joffrey capable of such a thing?" he asks. He has to ask. Has to _know_.

Jon’s expression is grim, but not condemning. "I believe the prince capable of a great many of things. After all, men have been known to commit terrible deeds in the name of the woman they love."

_His father’s son_, Jon had said, hadn’t he? Not with fondness, but with concern.

* * *

{ _On the road_ }

Harry yawns, mouth stretched open wide enough to hear his jaw pop. They’ve been riding since first sunlight, neither of them eager to prolong the awkward silence that lingered over their camp. Naturally, said silence appears to have followed them, but it is much easier to pretend not to have anything to talk about while riding than it is while sitting around a low campfire, staring into the flames.

Their ride has been uneventful so far. They’ve long left the woods behind, are traveling along small pathways and through wide grass planes now. The air has a salted scent to it that Harry hadn’t realized she’s been missing — King’s Landing, for all its stench, is a harbor city. The sea seems far away still, but Harry knows better. They’re making great time, should make it to Sharp Point within the day, two at most.

Which doesn’t leave him with a lot of time, but ever since his discovery Harry has diligently spent an hour every evening and every morning meditating to direct his magic’s inner flow. His pathways aren’t fully recovered — it’s hard to say if some of them ever will — but they are in a much better shape. Which downgrades his plan from suicidal to plain levels of stupidly dangerous. Wonderful.

During the early hours, Jaime has spent a lot of time whistling or telling random stories, but around midday his words eventually tampered off. They must have spent hours in shared silence by the time he sighs, deeply as though releasing a tension he’s been holding for many months and turns to give Harry an evaluating look.

"What?" Harry asks eventually, almost a full minute later. Simultaneously annoyed that he doesn’t manage to ignore Jaime fully and proud that he lasts as long as he does.

"Are you ever going to tell me what has gotten into you?" Jaime raises his eyebrows. "Your moods are enough to make a man forget where North and South is and it’s getting tiring to pretend neither of us notice."

In a way it’s her own fault, Harry muses. She just had to get stuck on a self-discovery road trip from hell with the bluntest family member she has. Then again, Joffrey would’ve been far worse. Not just for the chaos his disappearance would’ve wrought but because her brother knows her far too well and has never hesitated to speak out if he feels she’s acting against her best interests. Which has been known to happen, to say the least. Turns out, being raised to become a willing sacrifice hasn’t instilled the best of self-preservation instincts in him.

On second thought, Jaime definitely was the best available option. Still too attentive for her own peace of mind though.

Harry exhales noisily, buys herself another few precious seconds as she tries to decide how to approach this conversation that she definitely isn’t having [can’t have]. It’s not the time, it’s not the place and Harry is beginning to realize that said time and place may never come. That maybe they will never clear the air about her father’s, Robert Baratheon’s death, because no matter how much it pains her to admit, she can’t afford to have this argument now.

Harry can’t afford to have this argument.

Not with Dragonstone so close, he can almost taste the corrosive magic in the air already, like rusted blood clinging to his tongue, no matter how much water he drinks. And to what end? At this point, Robert — her father — has been dead for many months. What is perhaps worse — is the true reason she will not allow the accusations she wants, needs to voice to leave her lips — is the knowledge that Jaime has acted in defense of Joffrey, has protected her brother and Harry can’t fault him for that. <strike>She can’t say she wouldn’t have made the same choice.</strike>

Harry blinks, forcefully clears his mind, and settles on another answer. One no less true, but less cutting. Less personal. "I thought I would walk out of Oldtown knowing my enemy’s face." It’s one of the reasons even after he’d awoken in world and body that didn’t make sense, that grated on him for all that everything was so painfully familiar, Harry had been so eager to reach the city. To fulfill Elyanna’s self-appointed task and uncover the truth behind the Citadel.

[Harry Potter was a boy hero, a child soldier, a too-young killer. He wasn’t, isn’t built for _peace_.]

Harry grimaces as he remembers the vague memories he’d stolen from the maester he’d encountered. The awe entwined with fear, the determination to understand and control. It had rubbed him the wrong way immediately, had pushed every button Harry has and yet. A man-made conspiracy, decades old as it may be, would’ve been too simple, wouldn’t it?

"Instead I discovered that my enemy has no face at all." There’s too much bitterness in those words, too much resentment for a world once lived. [It had seemed so easy at eleven, Gryffindor vs. Slytherin, Dumbledore vs. Voldemort. It had taken 7 years of blood and fear and pain to teach him that the world isn’t split in binary options, but by Merlin, he’d learned eventually.] "And I can fix this, maybe, can break these curses, but magic is no real enemy. Magic is a tool and whoever stood behind it, evoked it, may be long dead."

Harry grits his teeth at the thought. Here’s the thing: He’s suffered through this curse. Elyanna has suffered through this curse. Breaking it is one thing and it’s important, but Harry also wants those responsible to _pay_. More than he likes to admit even to himself.

Jaime is still watching him, no hint of judgement in sight. It helps, more than it probably should. Makes the next words easier to say, almost natural even.

"I’m sorry." Harry means that. _All_ of him does. "It’s not fair to take any of this out on you. But—"

He swallows the _There is no one else_, unsure how to put the sentiment into words without sounding insulting.

Jaime shakes his head. "You don’t need to apologize to me, Eli," he reminds. _There’s no I understand_ or _Whatever happens, I will fight by your side_ or _If we find the ones responsible for this, I will kill them all_, but there’s no need for any of those proclamations. Harry already knows all that.

It makes him wonder if maybe some wounds can heal over without anyone carefully observing them and nursing them back to health. And if they scar, well, who cares?

Harry has long learned to live with interesting scars.

* * *

{ _King’s Landing_ }

Cersei doesn’t bother knocking on her brother’s door — there’s nothing she hasn’t caught Tyrion doing in the act. Repeatedly. The imp’s reputation is well-earned, she herself can attest to that.

Thankfully, she’s spared any such sights this time. Despite the late hour, Tyrion’s bedchamber is empty. Her brother’s small form rests on one of his opulent chairs, a full cup of wine loosely held in one hand and a carafe in easy reach.

Tyrion doesn’t bother faking surprise at her appearance. Nor does react in any way other than to gesture towards a trail of empty cups in an unspoken _Have at it_. Cersei isn’t sure where this ritual of theirs began, but for several moons now they’ve been meeting regularly every couple of days. Sometimes to argue and bite at each other the way they used to, back in easier, simpler times, sometimes to drink in silence and wonder where it all went wrong.

The loss of Robert, Jaime and Elyanna has changed much — though not nearly enough to be deserving of the pain its wrought them, or so it seems — and the knowledge that Jaime and Elyanna would be ecstatic to know that Cersei and Tyrion can finally stay in a room together without trying to kill each other does little to soothe the never-lessening burn.

Cersei fills up a cup for herself and takes a deep gulp, barely tastes the expensive Dornish wine on her tongue.

"Father should be here." She doesn’t mean to say it, but the words sneak out past the frustrated anger that keeps building and building within her, tightly leashed but growing every day.

Cersei hasn’t bothered to write since she received his first response. Has known it would be useless, that Tywin Lannister would not be moved towards the capital until he was damn well ready for it, but the knowledge still stings.

"He’s preoccupied." Tyrion’s voice is sharp with bitter resentment and for a moment it takes Cersei off-guard, strikes her as inherently wrong, that this sentiment isn’t wielded against her.

"Our family _needs_ him here." Her hands clench into fists and even though she knows her brother is well aware of that, her voice shakes with the force of her fury. "Joffrey is but a boy, he’s not ready to rule! Littlefinger, Varys, Arryn and the other circle him like vultures already and he doesn’t even wear the crown yet! They will use him in a way they’d never dare try with Father. We need him here, _Joffrey_ needs him here. What could possibly be more important?!"

The question is meant to be rhetorical, but as always Tyrion can’t resist rubbing salt into open wounds.

"He’s preparing another heir." Tyrion smiles, one part apology, two parts poison. "I don’t believe either one of us is considered sufficient."

The declaration is no real surprise. It’s no secret that Father considered Jaime his ideal heir — never mind his complete disinterest in their family’s legacy, the Seven know she loved her twin dearly, but Jaime was never meant to take their father’s place — and it hasn’t escaped either of their notice that Tywin has failed to declare Tyrion his heir in the wake of Jaime’s death.

And yet.

Father had never sullied their mother’s memory with another weak replacement, had never taken another wife. Cersei should’ve known that it wasn’t just sentiment driving that decision. That sentiment alone would not keep him from doing so if he considered it necessary. Tywin has always placed their family’s future above all else — even above its living, breathing members.

"He’s married?" Her throat feels like she’s swallowed a handful of sand.

"If he had, I’m sure I’d be the last to know." Tyrion drains his cup with an air of nonchalance so thin, he barely manages to hold on to it. "But I’m expecting an official announcement any day now."

Cersei bites her lip hard enough to draw blood. She hasn’t received any missives from her father since Robert’s death. He’ll marry and conceive another heir _and he didn’t even deign to tell her_.

She throws her cup hard enough, it shatters against the wall. The remains of the wine paint an ugly pattern against the stone, not unlike the blood splatters they found in Elyanna’s chambers.

_What will it take for you to value what you’ve been given over what you think you should’ve had, Father?_

* * *

Of all the people to encounter on her way back to her own quarters, Cersei doesn’t expect it to be Ned Stark she runs into. It’s a small comfort that the man looks just as surprised to see her — with all the people looming in the many corridors of the Red Keep, one can never be sure when an accidental meeting is truly accidental.

"Your Grace." Ned Stark inclines his head. In the weak firelight, his face looks older and more tired than Cersei remembers him being.

[Then again, they’ve all grown old and tired, haven’t they?]

"Lord Stark," she greets cooly.

Inviting him to King’s Landing was a mistake, she can see that now. Nothing has made the depth of her misjudgment more obvious than Joffrey’s betrothal with darling, little Sansa. A little bird as fragile as her dear Elyanna, but without the sharp teeth hidden behind a pleasant smile. Sansa is painfully young and silly in ways even sweet Myrcella and lively Gwyneth are not. Perhaps this is one of the reasons the girl unsettles her so: She is a vibrant reminder of the innocence Cersei’s own daughters couldn’t afford to retain.

Worse than the impeding marriage, forever chaining her precious son to a House she’s never learned to stop hating and isn’t inclined to start any time soon, is the fact that her ploy has proven useless. Either Elyanna does not believe the Red Keep poses a serious threat to the Starks — though it is hard to imagine that her clever daughter could be so naive — or Joffrey hasn’t seen it fit to share their arrival with her. It is, Cersei has to admit, far more likely an option than she is comfortable with. Judging by the conversation she overheard, Joffrey wants to keep Elyanna away from the capital. And her boy is smart enough to realize that few things would draw in his sister faster than the trice cursed Starks.

On another evening, Cersei might have passed Ned Stark by with little more than an empty platitude. But tonight, she feels raw and restless, the pain of her father’s disregard, the grief over Jaime’s loss the all too clear memory of the last meaningful conversation she had with her beloved eldest daughter — "_I love you. Nothing changes that. But I can’t forgive you. Not now. Not with this._" — and the tight reins she’s kept on her ever-mounting anger doesn’t so much snap as it simply… slips out of her grasp.

"Thread carefully, Lord Stark." Cersei bites the words out as though she could poison him through it, if only she puts in enough effort. "King’s Landing is a dangerous place and the King does not suffer a traitor’s continued existence."

"I beg your pardon, your Grace?" Ned stares at her, genuinely startled, and it occurs to Cersei with sudden annoyance that he truly doesn’t know. He walks these halls, eats on their table as an honored guest, pushes his useless daughter onto her son, while she has to live in fear for her children’s lives, for Elyanna’s safety, for Joffrey’s worsening mood and weaker standing among the lords than she’s comfortable with. Ned Stark is no better man than her pretentious father ever was, is just as ruthless and uncompromising as Tywin at his worst. Only he has his _honorable_ reputation to hide behind, undeserved as it is is almost untouchable because of the trust people hand him so freely, the same people she has to arm herself against, and it’s not fair. It’s not fair and Cersei wants him to suffer like she suffers, wants Ned Stark to know the fear that plagues her day and night. Wants him to know what it’s like to jump at shadows and awaken with the screams and pleas of dying children ringing in your ears.

"You should do far more than beg, Lord Stark," she hisses from behind clenched teeth. "Or what would you call a man who hid a Targaryen heir away from the justice of the crown and to raise him as his own far up in the North? What would you call a man who chose a dying dynasty above the man and king he proclaims to have loved like a brother?"

It’s intensely gratifying to see Ned Stark pale at the accusation she levels against him. An accusation he can neither deny, nor defend against, as Cersei damn well knows.

She smiles the same smile she used to grace Tyrion with in their worst moments, a twisted, hateful thing full of everything she tries to shield her children from. "What do you think Joffrey will do once he learns whom you’ve hidden away amongst the household of his future bride? Do you think he will grant _Jon Snow_ mercy where Robert would not?" she mocks.

"He is but a child with no interest in nor knowledge of his heritage." The words are quiet, but serious. Cersei can understand why so many people are willing to put their faith in this man — but she’s never had much luck with trusting a man’s word. Even Jaime— Even Jaime broke his promise not to leave her eventually.

"So you say. But we both know the worth of a traitor’s word, don’t we? No, Lord Stark. There is nothing in this world that I love more than I love my children. And I will do _whatever it takes_ to protect them and keep them safe. Do the both of us a favor and keep that mind." Cersei grins, half hysterical, half genuinely amused. "There truly is no escaping any of our past sins, is there, Lord Stark?"

* * *

{ _Elsewhere_ }

It’s the same set-up. The meadow, surrounded by a heavy fog in the air that robs him of his sight. Damp grass on the ground everywhere, so dark it almost doesn’t count as green, safe for the daffodils blooming at Harry’s feet. A girl with too-old eyes at his back, humming a familiar melody he can’t place. Always at his back. <strike>Where he trusts her the least</strike>.

Harry slowly lets the air escape him, a rattling sound that echoes around him. His fingers curl and not for the first time, he wishes he would have an arrow or dagger with him. Not that would make a difference, but. It’s the thought that counts, right?

"You’re upset." Luna comes to a stop near his left side, just out of reach, as though wary of approaching him further.

[But that’s a lie, isn’t it? Just another mask, another carefully placed suggestion, another step in this game of hers that he doesn’t understand the rules of.]

Harry snorts.

He hasn’t dreamed of Luna in the last five days. Maybe that was her mistake. To give him time to think, to work through all the hidden layers of their conversation. Unsettle him further, keep him second-guessing. Some sort of power-play, no doubt. But as Fudge, Umbridge, Voldemort and later on Abercrombie and Nott realized too late — power-plays can backfire all too easily when your audience doesn’t buy into your show.

Perhaps Luna hasn’t learned that lesson yet. Perhaps — and it’s that option that scares him the most when he allows himself to contemplate it — she doesn’t care because whatever conclusions Harry reaches _won’t matter_.

[Fuck fate. Fuck destiny. Harry’s gone through that shit once, he’s _not_ doing it again.]

"I know I’m no Hermione, but I’m not stupid either." Harry glares balefully at her over his shoulder. Refusing to turn around completely, even though he hates having Luna only just within his sight, because he won’t let her push him around unless she _makes_ him. "What do you want? _Really_ want?" he asks and continues before Luna has the chance to open her mouth. "And don’t give me that 'You don’t belong here' spiel again. You’ve been dropping mystical hints from the get-go and I’m tired of jumping after every bread crump. Let’s drop the facade, alright?"

"Facade?" Luna frowns and Harry kind of hates that he can’t tell whether the hurt expression on her face is genuine or not. "What do you mean?"

It’s probably not a smart decision to confront her like this. Harry should just play along, see what he can figure out from everything she says — and doesn’t say — except. Well. Blame Snape, blame Voldemort, blame fucking Dumbledore, but Harry really doesn’t appreciate having his mind fucked with.

"Come on. You haven’t had anything helpful to say since these dreams first started." Harry scoffs. "But then, being helpful isn’t the goal, is it? All that bullshit about belonging and fate and what not." He shakes his head, strands of hair falling into his eyes. It’s growing like crazy, he’ll have to cut it again soon. "That was just a distraction, wasn’t it? To keep me off-balance. Keep me from wondering why it’s only now, months after I woke up that I’m having these dreams. Why it’s _you_ of all people I’m seeing. So I’m asking again: What do you want?"

Luna looks at him. There’s no sign of anger in response to his accusations, her expression is completely even. Blank. Like a mask, discarded now that it has lost its use. [And doesn’t that thought send a pulse of dread through Harry’s heart.] Except for her eyes. Her eyes are an endless tunnel, a bottomless pit, an unfathomable sea that swallows him whole and Harry thinks dizzily that he’ll never escape it once he’s dragged in too deep—

She blinks and the moment breaks.

"What tipped you off?"

"Honestly?" Harry smirks and tries not to let on how unsettling her complete lack of reaction to being found out is. "Too much mystery. People tend to assume Luna talks in riddles because of her quirks, but she’s one of the most straight-forward persons I know. She might have started out the way you did just to annoy me, but she would’ve gotten to the point immediately afterwards. You just… never seem to have one."

"And that makes you nervous, doesn’t it?" It’s Luna’s big eyes watching him attentively, but the weight behind her gaze is something else entirely. "Fearful and suspicious too. And— curious." Luna-who-isn’t-Luna’s — [<strike>**_you know exactly who I am, where we are, why you are here, don’t you, Harry Potter_**</strike>] — smile is far too smug for Harry’s comfort. This isn’t the face of someone who has encountered an unforeseen complication. It’s the face of someone who has gotten exactly what they want.

The realization hits a moment later.

"That’s—" Harry splutters. "You did all this, all those stupid, annoying, time-wasting dreams just to catch my interest?! What the hell for?"

"What for, indeed." Luna muses. "My approach may have been unconventional, I admit, but I’m afraid I have little experience in the matter of wooing." A twist of lips that cannot, in good conscience, be called a smile. "I’m not used to people being able to deny me, you see. You, Harry Potter, are somewhat of a special case in that regard."

Harry grimaces — an old reflex to being called special, never a good sign in his experience — and almost freezes when he recognizes the gleam in Luna’s eyes — no longer grey, but the clear blue of a limitless sky — and realizes it is precisely the reaction she aimed for.

[When does a puppet stop being a puppet? When does a puppet stop feeling like a puppet?]

"I’m so sorry to have inconvenienced you," Harry forces out with as much sarcasm as he can fit into the syllables. It’s too aggressive, too telling — he hates feeling like he’s still playing catch-up, always one step behind, especially against an opponent who knows him far too well to be reasonable, and yet. Old habits die hard.

"Don’t be." Luna’s smile widens further — too far. Her teeth gleam white enough to burn in Harry’s eyes and he has to look away, has to blink and almost misses how she takes another step towards him. "It’s been a pleasure."

There’s no noticeable shift in Luna’s posture or even her facade at all, but something deep within Harry recognizes the words for the threat they are, recognize the immediate danger that his mind can’t categorize or find the origin of. He wants to, needs to take a step back, bring back some distance between them and _fuck_ what whoever the fuck this is thinks of his retreat—

Except his feet don’t move.

His hands don’t move.

He can’t move.

He. Can’t. Move.

"Your instincts are impressive, you know." There’s so much fondness in Luna’s voice that it makes Harry itch to shudder — except he _can’t fucking feel his body anymore _—, like he’s being patronized in the gentlest, most uncomfortably humiliating way. "It took me months to get enough of a foothold to accomplish even this, without having you lock me out again."

_Clearly I need to work harder_, Harry wants to snarl, though the words don’t make it past his frozen lips.

Not that it seems to matter. Luna laughs as though he’s spoken out loud, if an octave deeper than what Harry thinks her vocal records should be capable of. Or perhaps it’s more that the sound is too loud, too encompassing to fit her slight form. The force of her amusement sends tremors through the air beneath Harry’s feet, vibrates within the air all around him. [_What_ are you?]

Then, too sudden to feel natural, she sobers. "You should be thanking me, Harry Potter. I do not hand out favors lightly." Tilts her head in a motion so _Luna_, it makes Harry want to throw up. "Should you survive this, perhaps you will."

_How very reassuring_, Harry wants to sneer. He hopes his eyes manage to convey the words with the venom they are meant to hold.

Luna reaches down to pick up one of the daffodils blooming at their feet, cradles the blossom in her palm as though holding a priceless treasure. Sighs. [The noise is eerily similar to Aunt Petunia when even she finally reached the end of her rope with Dudley. Urgh. _So_ not the mental image Harry wants to spend his last few moments recalling.]

"You really should stop breaking yourself apart," she murmurs and, without further ado, presses her free hand against Harry’s forehead. For all the exasperation her expression conveys though, her touch is surprisingly gentle. Like a feather trailing along warm skin.

Only her hand doesn’t stop there.

It sinks deeper. _Into_ Harry skin.

The force increases and though there’s no pain, only an overwhelming amount of pressure bearing down on him from every side, heavier and deeper until it feels like he can’t breathe, shouldn’t be able to breathe, there’s no room left to be— for a moment Harry thinks this is how he’s going to die: torn apart in between two forces he doesn’t understand and _can’t fight_.

It’s too much. He can’t— It’s too much. Something has to— _He_ has to—

**B R E A K .**

* * *

She’s balancing on a window ledge. Down below, a boy wearing noble clothes is chasing two laughing servant girls. There’s a weight on her shoulders that’s always been there, a weight she has never noticed, for she has never known any different. There is a young woman with silver eyes walking towards her and with every step she takes, the weight increases.

It’s too much. The weight of it swallows her and she’s drowning. It’s too much and she can’t—

_"But you did, didn’t you?" A warm exhale against his cheek._

There’s a flash of golden hair in the corner of her eyes — the snitch! — and she sways, trips, flies, **_falls_**.

[She never once doubts that someone will catch her, for Elyanna Baratheon has never been alone a day in her life.]

* * *

She’s walking down the stairs, one step at a time. One hand trails along the stonewall by her side, to keep herself steady [to catch herself before she falls, when she falls]. There’s a pressure bearing down on her from above, but she is a princess of the Seven Realms — a boy-hero and man-made monster — and she’s been shouldering the weight of the world far longer on her shoulders than her father has held a throne he never wanted.

Yet no matter how straight she keeps her shoulders, how determined she is to walk ahead, the pressure increases with every step she takes forward. And even her strength is not endless.

She breathes.

Forces herself to focus on the way her lungs expand with every exhale, a calming rhythm against the pounding of her heart, the rushing of her blood in her ears, the restless twisting and turning of her magic underneath her skin.

Until she can no longer feel the air in her lungs, loses touch with her body completely and for a moment she hovers there, blind and deaf and drowning underneath _panicfearpain_ in a vast darkness—

the wooden grip of his beloved Firebolt, the sickening green light of Voldemort’s Avada Kedavra, Hermione’s hair in his mouth as she hugs him closer, the Great Hall’s ceiling at sunset, Headless Nick’s jovial voice, a dog’s fur against shaking fingers, Dudley’s scream, Ron’s face, pale and drawn, as he holds Lockhart at wand-point—

"_I don’t remember this._"

"_I assumed as much. Don’t worry, it gets better."_

It’s too much. It’s her, it’s who she is, what makes her her, but it’s too much at once. A tidal wave of _memoriesfeelingsthoughtsknowledgebeliefs _and it’s all coming alive so suddenly, is all being pulled forward like the tide is drawn in by the moon — why is it being pulled — and she is can’t hold it all, is already overflowing with it, stretched too thin to the very limits of her body’s capacity and more’s still coming and if she doesn’t do something now, doesn’t stop this then she’ll erase herself, she’ll shatter and tear and bleed it everywhere or worse, so much worse, she’ll lose this, these memories, this precious knowledge who she is and who she’ll always be and then what? What will remain if it’s all gone, what will she be without this? She can’t, can’t lose this, can’t. Can’t. Can’tcan’tcan’t.

It’s taking it, taking it away from her, her magic, her memories, everything she is, everything she’s fought to be and she can’t let it.

She **won’t**.

_"What— What is she— What did I _do_?!"_

_"Wait and see for yourself."_

She won’t go out like this. Not after everything, after being betrayed in the worst way possible, after being left to die and not even being able to do that properly and this, all of it, is hers and _if she can’t have it, nobody can_.

She plunges her hands into her mind, into her heart, into her core, deeper, deeper than she ever went before. And. She reaches deep into herself, takes hold of her insides and she _pulls_. There’s blood running down her cheeks, trickling out of her mouth, coating her inner ears and it hurtshurtshurts but she grits her teeth and bites her tongue and she **tears. them. out.**

_An echo of what feels like approval._

_"Your instincts truly are a monstrous thing, Harry Potter."_

It should feel wrong, holding your heart — the equivalent of it, the core of everything you are — in your hands like this, a wiggling, squishy mess full of broken edges and _still beating_, while the gaping wounds bleed sluggishly within her and she knows she’ll have to do something about that, but first—

[<strike>What do you do with your heart, even if you could keep it in a place separate from yourself? Where would you even put it?</strike>]

[If you had to narrow down your personality, your character, your entire identity to one single thing, what would that be? <strike>They always did tell him he wore his heart on his sleeve, didn’t they?</strike>]

She clenches her fingers around it, digs deep into the comforting, terrifying warmth inside her palms and she keeps hold of it, refuses to let go as the tugging grows more insistent, greedy. _It’s mine! Mine alone and you’ll never get any of it!_

She presses it against her head. Not her mind — it can’t be there, it already was and it wasn’t safe — and not against her heart — the heart cannot handle a divide as the mind can, cannot beat for more than one body at a time — and she pushes, pushes, _pushes_ until it sinks. Seals it away until no one, no being living or dead, can touch it, not even she herself.

[_If I can’t have it, nobody can!_]

It burns and she misses a step on the stairs and she falls, falls, falls. There’s blood on her forehead and her head feels like it’s on fire and there’s a gap in her mind where something important used to be and—

[She’ll wake to a scar, an ugly, swollen thing in the shape of a lightening bolt on her forehead, and she’ll _laugh_, laugh until she cries, even though Elyanna never fully understands why the sight amuses her so terribly.]

* * *

Harry’s eyes snap open. [When did he close them?]

"What— What _was_ that?" He chokes and doesn’t know whether it’s Luna or the vibrancy of the memory that is to blame for it.

"The undeniable proof that the combination of panic, PTSD, Old Magic and what passes for self-control in an average six-year-old child lead to bad decisions all around," is Luna’s dry response.

"The curse in the Red Keep. I suspected that its anchor point is in the lower levels. I must have gotten too close and I—" The realization isn’t so much a shock as a painful confirmation of what he’s been suspecting for a while. "I tried to overcome it. I tried to _break_ it."

"Indeed. Only you lacked the understanding of what you were facing, so your magic tried to overwhelm it the old fashioned way."

Pouring more and more power into it. An instinctive response that works well for magical people above average power — because in duels, overwhelming your opponent through sheer power is very much possible — but not so well against rituals and curses. Especially not a parasite like this. Shit.

One thing seems to remain true in both his lives: It’s a wonder he’s survived long enough to pass his fourteenth birthday.

"It’s when you realized that the curse fed on your magic that things get interesting." Luna pulls a strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze trailing over— the scar on his forehead. Of course. "By the time that happened, it was already too late. The curse should have taken your life that night. But you’ve never _really_ greeted Death like an old friend, have you, Harry Potter?" Harry is treated to another one of those little not-smiles that he’s very much uncomfortable with. "You’ve always wanted to survive just that bit more than you wanted to truly live."

The words hit far deeper than they have any right to. Thankfully he’s got more important things to do than debate the value of life and death with the apparent ghost of his former— whatever the hell Luna was to him.

"But what did I do? Locking my memories away shouldn’t have stopped the curse from feeding on me. And besides it didn’t happen like that. I never really forgot who I was." Hell, she’d been telling her siblings stories of the servant boy in the cupboard her entire childhood.

"Not fully," Luna agrees absent-mindedly. Her eyes are looking past him, into a far away future or past perhaps. "Not immediately. You were only a child, after all, and doing the impossible besides. You could not erase them, could not stop yourself from being magical _or_ being Harry Potter. No, you did something much more dramatic, as you are wont to do."

And there’s definitely an accusation hidden behind those falsely amused words.

"You broke yourself on such a fundamental level, the curse no longer identified your full magical reserves, could only access a part of it. You forcefully separated yourself from your magic to the point where you no longer recognized it as part of yourself but something new and foreign. A part so intrinsically interwoven with your magical capabilities, it could be nothing but Harry Potter. And thus the part that remained, the part that was always you and will always be you _and_ _has always been Harry Potter _had to be someone else."

_The birth of Elyanna Baratheon_, Harry thinks with no small amount of hysterical amusement. _Or is it death?_

He allows himself one five second freak-out, before he promptly shoves it all way into a small box inside his mind he never plans to open again. This isn’t the time for another identity crises. He’s pretty sure he’s already reached his monthly quota. Besides there are more important issues to deal with. _Compartmentalization for the win_.

"Why bother telling me?" He narrows his eyes at Luna. Partly to stress his suspicion and partly because he still can’t bloody move. "So I’m not the most mentally sound person around, that’s hardly news and I don’t see how it’s any of your business. It’s not like you can fix it, can you?"

A fracture that old and deep is not something you can just _undo_.

Luna actually rolls her eyes. Maybe he’s getting to her — maybe she just wants him to think he is. "You’ve surprised me, Harry Potter. Take it as encouragement or take it as consolation, but I am interested in seeing you survive the hijacking of an ancient sacred ritual site. And if you proceed as broken as you are now, you _will_ fail."

It’s only then that Harry realizes Luna still hasn’t removed her hand from his forehead. Her palm is resting right above the infamous scar. And she’s still pressing against it. Into it. It’s actually starting to hurt.

Harry wants to make a comment, say something stupid, probably, but his gaze is caught by Luna’s eyes, dark as the night’s sky above him and just as vast, and whatever words or thoughts there might have been are swallowed up by the flames that sear through his flesh like a sharp dagger through paper.

"**Stop fighting me.**" A voice that is so much more than a mere voice tells him, and then there’s nothing left to hold onto.

* * *

{ _Sharp Point_ }

Jaime reflexively scans the ship for his wayward niece. Ever since he had to shake her awake this morning, dirty hair matted with blood, skin stark white and deep shadows under her eyes that speak of a sleepless night, he hasn’t been able to stop the niggling sense of something _wrong_. Elyanna had waved him off repeatedly, rolled his eyes in the face of his concern. But considering that had also been her usual response when she was on bedrest, too weak to even sit up, her every breath rattling deep within her lungs, Jaime finds himself far from reassured.

His suspicion that Elyanna is too used to be sick, too used to fight for her life and linger on the Stranger’s door to understand the cause of his worry doesn’t help.

It takes him a few moments — long enough to have his heart pounding, have his fingers itch for a sword — before he locates her. Elyanna sits out of the way of the sailors, but in plain few on deck of the little trading ship they’ve snuck on. Just like his niece insisted — with a offended glare so eerily reminiscent of Cersei it had hit Jaime like a punch in the gut — they’ve managed to sneak aboard without any of the crew seemingly noticing them. Even now, they walk and move around Elyanna without hesitation and without conscious realization of her presence.

Sometimes, when Jaime allows himself to think about it, the power Elyanna wields with so little effort terrifies him to death. Most days, he prefers those startling, fascinating abilities in her hands over any other. The Seven know he wouldn’t know what to do with it— nor should he be trusted with such influence over other people’s minds.

Elyanna is sitting with her legs crossed, her back straight and her eyes closed. In her hands, she twists two arrows around her fingers again and again, in a soothing rhythm, as they dance between her fingers. A habit she’s picked up on their travels back from Oldtown. What used to be clumsy, fumbling attempts have turned into smooth, well-practiced motions.

[Jaime has his suspicions what it is Elyanna plans to do next — he’s very familiar with her astonishing aim — but for now he’s content to wait for her to decide when she’s ready for the next step on her own.]

Elyanna is still dressed in her torn, muddy travel clothes, and a boy’s at that. Even if the sailors would notice them, Jaime has no doubt that nobody would recognize her as the missing princess. She’s young and skinny enough for now to make a convincing boy at first glance. The wild hair and cloth she’s tied around her forehead only help set her apart from the image of a princess of the realm.

It’s not the convincing — and therefore all the more unsettling — picture of a lowborn boy Elyanna makes that draws Jaime’s attention though. He’s had ample time to get used to that [not to mention that even back at the Red Keep, Elyanna liked to dress in simple clothes and get lost amidst the crowd of servant girls for a little while]. It's the closed eyes, hiding their feverish gleam. It’s the grey cloth that used to be the sleeve of one of his tunics that is now covering her forehead — and the distinguishing mark on it.

The mark that’s been bleeding ever since Elyanna woke up this morning.

[When asked, Elyanna had simply shrugged — Cersei would have his head for letting her daughter develop all these bad habits — unbothered by the sight of the blood she kept wiping off her forehead.

"_Sometimes things get broken and knit themselves together the wrong way and to begin healing properly you have to break them open again. Besides,_" A flash of teeth, vicious, like a lion finally baring its teeth, "_I’ve never been good at following orders. Or giving in_."

Which had been simultaneously an unhelpful and very concerning statement. Tyrion would be proud.]

Jaime doesn’t have to touch the cloth to know that it will be wet with fresh blood. Not for the first time he feels as though he's still stuck back in the Red Keep at Elyanna's bedsite, watching the girl he loves like his own daughter slowly succumb to an enemy he can't defend against until she inevitably fades beyond his reach.

In the distance, out of sight, but never fully out of mind, Dragonstone looms more menacing than ever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Concerning Luna's appearance:_ I hesitated a long time over whether or not this should be included in the main story. It's always been part of my headcanon, but I felt like the scene doesn't add much for the plot right now and thus doesn't have to take up the space. In the end, I decided to add it anyway for two reasons:  
1) At the beginning of this fic, (for those of you who still remember those days) quite a few readers were surprised and some even annoyed by Elyanna's lightening bolt scar. It occurred to me recently that you would never receive an explanation for why this scar came to be, since even Harry themself didn't remember, unless some other character with the necessary knowledge [of which Luna is the only one who qualifies] mentioned it.  
2) When the mindset shift between Elyanna and Harry occured for the first time at the beginning of this arc, I got a lot of comments concerning how you missed Elyanna and hoped she wasn't dead. Which I very much appreciated (it shows that I managed to pull the mindset shift off ;D), but it made me realize that there's a lot of confusion over who Elyanna and Harry are to each other. And once again Harry lacks the ability to analyze their own psyche (or is at least not a very reliable source) so we get some outside confirmation via Luna that yes, Elyanna and Harry are in fact/used to be the same person.  
Elyanna has never existed entirely separate from Harry Potter [if you go back to the chapters of her childhood, you'll notice that there's a lot of references to things and situations only HP would know], she never developed independent of HP. It's also good for Harry's psyche to receive confirmation that he hasn't "taken over" some random girl's body and life, which from his perspective was also a possibility.  
**BUT:** This does not mean that Luna "solves" the divide or "heals" it or whatever. Her revelations give Harry the understanding and context to grasp how this divide occured, which will help them address the issue in the longterm, but it doesn't actually fix anything. Thus Harry's POV will continue to switch between both his mindsets and vary in pronouns.  
And well, who Luna is? You tell me :P
> 
> ...boy, this note got out of hand. Sorry, I just like to ramble about this fic, but I'm gonna shut up now and hope you've enjoyed this update! If you have the time, I'd love to hear your thoughts and impressions of this chapter in the comments. Have a great day, everyone! 
> 
> _Limited POV:_ Jon Arryn has no idea that Joffrey isn't Robert's biological son. Cersei doesn't know that Jaime is still alive and is uncertain what exactly happened to Elyanna. She assumes that Elyanna and Joffrey stay in touch much more regularly than they truly do. Jaime doesn't know Cersei believes him dead, nor does he have a clue just how dangerous the taks Harry wants to accomplish is. But he definitely has his suspicions.


	29. part ix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Don’t fall."_   
_Bran flashes her a cheeky grin. "I never do."_
> 
> In which Ned discovers many things, Jon Arryn knows more than anyone gave him credit for, everyone should pay more attention to the kitchen staff, and Joffrey gets an unpleasant surprise we all saw coming.

_296 AC_

{ _King’s Landing_ }

Part of the problem, Ned thinks as he stares at the seemingly endless collection of thick, dust-covered books in Grandmaester Pycelle’s repertoire, is that he doesn’t know what he’s looking for. [Another, potentially more serious part of the problem, is that he isn’t sure yet if he wants to find anything.] Not that Pycelle isn’t perfectly helpful — too helpful, if Ned’s gut feeling is worth anything, which is why he’s taken great care to keep his requests as non-specific as possible, no matter how much less efficient that makes the search he’s still not convinced he should be conducting.

This is what he gets for sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, Ned supposes. Spending his nights in cramped rooms that smells of old leather and dust, squinting at faded, hand-written notes and turning over page over page of old books that look like no one’s bothered to take them in hand for more years than Ned’s been alive.

Yet another reminder that he’s not as young as he used to be, as though the ache in his bed and the way his eyes water from exhaustion aren’t hint enough. Ned shrugs the thought of rather easily. After all, there’d been a time in this life where he hadn’t been sure if he’d ever live long enough to sire children and later to ever meet his firstborn child.

He’s not that old yet — men in the North rarely grow _old_ — but Ned is a practical man. He’s lived his life and has been granted the greatest joy he could possibly hope for, not just once, but five times. So no, it’s not worry over himself that has Ned stuck here, in Grandmaester Pycelle’s unappealing study, trying to decipher the man’s predecessor’s handwriting. 

Ned Stark, after all, is a great many things, but he’s never been accused of being a fool. Foolish, yes, but not a fool. He knows damn well why he’s here, in the middle of the night, searching for a secret Jon considers worth burying. It’s not a lack of trust, you see. Ned loves Jon like a father, like blood, like _family_. More than that, he trusts him. But he also understands him. Jon, like Ned, takes his duties seriously. And whether he wanted the position or not, Jon Arryn is Hand of the King. Has been Hand of the King for many years. A title that comes with many a duty. Not the least of which is to take care of problems that don’t need the king’s full attention.

["_Problems" like Jon Snow?_, a poisonous voice that sounds eerily like the King Mother murmurs in the back of his mind. Ned’s grip around his quill clenches, but he manages not to snap it in half. Barely.

The whispers that used to haunt him back when Lyanna first died haven’t been quiet since his ill-fated encounter with Cersei Lannister a few days ago. An old shadow he’d thought — _hoped_ — forgotten. It is fitting, in a way, that even after all these years, the lies haven’t stopped dogging his every step.

After all, the day Ned Stark accepted little Aegon Targaryen as his bastard son wasn’t just the day he saved his nephew’s life. It was also the day he betrayed his king, his _brother_. Ned hasn’t forgotten that, for all that he likes to pretend otherwise. He doubts the Old Gods have, either.]

With a heavy sigh, Ned turns the page of yet another report on the Mad King’s failing health. He doubts there’s anything hidden in these reports that Jon would seek to hide — or that would catch the maesters’ interest for that matter — but the reports on Elyanna Baratheon have proven sparse and supremely unhelpful. And Ned isn’t so reckless as to show an unusual amount of interest in any documents regarding the soon-to-be King of the Seven Kingdoms. There are easier ways to be accused of treason, probably, not that any come to mind at the moment. No, Ned doesn’t want to give anyone the wrong impression.

Especially not with Cersei’s threat weighing heavily on his mind. And it was a threat. It doesn’t matter how polite she’s been ever since during the meetings and meals they’ve shared, how pleasant if meaningless the conversations they’ve had were. Doesn’t matter that she’s made no move to act on what she knows. The mere fact that she does, that the secret Ned hasn’t dared to share with anyone, not even Catelyn, leaves him restless and nervous.

If it was just himself, Ned would bear the consequences of his actions gladly. Would confess and subject himself to whichever judgement Robert’s heir deemed fit. [Would have told Catelyn the truth all those years ago, when he watched her faith in him crumble for the first time.]

But it isn’t. Has never been about him. It’s Jon, it’s his entire family that would have to shoulder the consequences and that is the one thing Ned can’t abide.

Which is precisely why he’s still here, in the uncomfortable chair Pycelle offered him, searching for a secret that might not even exist outside his own mind. The grandmaester has excused himself hours ago, no doubt to invite yet another whore into his chambers. Ned doesn’t know who the man thinks he’s fooling — or why everyone pretends not to notice how Pycelle break his oaths again and again. It’s not like the man is subtle.

Ned hadn’t thought too much of the King Mother’s threats at first. Had been too busy keeping the panic locked down underneath a stoic front, planning for the various eventualities for if and when Cersei inevitably revealed the truth to her son. It hadn’t been until after a sleepless night and several scrapped letters to his wife that it had occurred to Ned to wonder why Cersei had confronted him the way she did. Why she had revealed the secret that she must have kept from Robert all these years, why _now_.

He has already shared his suspicions with Jon Arryn — and Ned refuses to consider that this might have been a mistake, that his trust in Jon might be misplaced — regarding Oldtown and though the thought that the boy his daughter is supposed to marry might have burned an entire city down to avenge his sister sits heavy in his stomach, there is not a lot he can do about it. There’s no proof, only suspicions and motives, and Joffrey will soon be king. Has already been king in all but name by the time he ordered his men’s retreat from the Reach.

No, even if his worst fears are true, Cersei is a Lannister through and through. She’s had ample time to make King’s Landing her own and the revelation of such an act, heinous though it may be, might weaken Joffrey’s standing, but it would hardly eradicate it. He is king after all, and there are few rules that apply to the one holding the throne. And though every man has a line he won’t cross, even for the sake of his lord and king, if nothing else the rebellion has shown all those who survived it that every man draws that line at a different point.

[The knowledge sits uncomfortably against Ned’s sternum, the question of _what right does a king have to burn his own men alive_ far too reminiscent of the whispers during the later years of the Mad King’s reign, far too close to _treason _for his comfort.]

And yet, Cersei has descended upon him with the raging fury of a mother protecting her children — and what kind of protection is it, where you ignore their faults and bury the consequences of their actions? — and has, without hesitation, used what has to be the most dangerous weapon she has against him.

Ned would be the first to admit that he’s in over his head in these Southern power games, but he’s never been accused of being a fool. _That_ is why he is here now, why he still looking for an answer to this entire mess after days of not finding anything out of the ordinary in Pycelle’s notes.

Because Ned has to know what kind of man Joffrey is. [Because he has to know what it is that Cersei Lannister _fears he’ll find_.]

* * *

Pycelle’s desk has four drawers. Perhaps Ned should be surprised that only three of them have a false bottom, that only one of those hidden compartments holds anything of worth, but he can’t find the energy to hold up such a pretense when nobody is around to watch.

* * *

{ _King’s Landing_ }

Arya is the last to arrive for breakfast. If you ignore that Father’s seat is empty as well, but he hasn’t joined them for the past few days, so it doesn’t count. Even Septa Mordane doesn’t protest when they start eating, although the way she’s eyeing Arya’s careless braid promises a lecture in her very near future.

Bran notices too, from the way he’s snickering into his bread. Arya narrows her eyes and waits until the septa is distracted by Sansa’s question about the Sept of Baelor — like anyone cares about a huge stone building where people don’t do anything interesting, just walk slowly and pray and pretend to honor the gods — before she throws a spoonful of crumbs at him. They hit Bran right in the face and startle him so much, he almost falls off the chair, which is so worth Septa Mordane’s suspicious glare and Sansa’s scolding.

Arya doesn’t know why her sister bothers, it’s not like she’s listening. All Arya really learns while watching her brother rub crumbs out of his eyelashes with a scowl is that her aim is definitely improving. Probably not where Sansa is going with her tirade, but Arya wouldn’t know, would she? There’s only so many times you can pay attention to the same speech before it fades into the background.

By the time Sansa finally decides that Arya has been shamed enough — or has simply run out of words to say, though knowing her dear sister that isn’t likely — they’re almost done with breakfast and there’s still no sign of Father.

Arya frowns. She’s not sure if Sansa has noticed, but their father’s been distant lately. Distracted. Like those first moons after Rickon’s birth, when they were barely allowed to see their new brother and Mother almost never left the sickbed. Like that time when Maester Luwin brought a raven bearing dark news of the death of the king and the disappearance of the eldest princess.

Usually, there isn’t much that escapes Sansa’s notice, especially not in regards to the moods of their father. She’s always been better at picking up on those things than Arya, who is more likely to stumble upon interesting things by sheer accident and being in places nobody expects a noble girl to be, rather than by picking up on the underlying tones of a conversation and the many things people reveal through their faces and body motions alone. Lately though Sansa has been distracted. Septa Mordane has even caught her daydreaming a time or two during their shared lessons, which is not like Sansa at all. Not during her study time, at least. Apparently all that was needed to reveal this flighty, distracted side of her is a stupid — if handsome, Arya will give him that, he’s got pretty eyes even if she doesn’t really get the appeal — prince who shows up every other day and invites her for a walk. A _walk_.

What do you even do during a walk? It’s not like Sansa doesn’t spend most of her free moments strolling through the seemingly endless gardens of King’s Landing. Arya would be bored to death if she didn’t have Nymeria to race and endless tunnels and hidden corners within the Red Keep to explore.

"They’re getting to know each other, as is proper," Septa Mordane had explained without really explaining anything.

How do you get to know someone by walking and looking at pretty flowers? Arya has probably learned more about Prince Joffrey by watching him practice the sword in the training yard than through all the meals they’ve shared so far put together.

[He loses that calm smile he always wears during mealtimes then. Wears another expression of calm that is much, much less friendly even though he doesn’t really do anything to make it threatening. His eyes turn cooler and sharper if that makes any sense, and Arya only had to watch him at practice once to know by heart that Joffrey is _good_. Like Robb and Jon, when they finally stop playing around and fight for real. Like Theon, when he gets his hands on a bow.

Arya likes the prince much better when he’s like that, focused and capable, holding his own against most of the men who train him. She can respect a warrior. What she can’t understand is why he sheds that skin once he steps off the training grounds. Or well, not sheds, perhaps, but hides it underneath a softer, less secure appearance that covers the ice in his eyes.]

But no matter. Sansa’s always been weird.

Thus it comes as no surprise when their older sister immediately excuses herself to meet up with the other court ladies or maybe Princess Myrcella, whom Sansa has taken a liking to. Septa Mordane thankfully also leaves them, though not without another stern reminder not to be late to their lessons later today and to take care of the rat’s nest that is Arya’s hair.

Arya rolls her eyes, but waits for the woman to disappear into her chambers before she meets Bran’s even gaze.

"There’s something wrong with Father."

Bran doesn’t look surprised by her declaration, but he wouldn’t be. Arya has seen him glance at Father’s empty seat more than once out of the corner of her eye. She knows her brother has noticed his lack of presence and is as bothered by it as she is. It’s not like Father to do this. Shared meals are _important_, that’s what he always, and they’ve always upheld that rule religiously, even on the road to King’s Landing.

"I know. I’ve followed him around yesterday." Bran snags one of the leftover pieces of meat and feeds it to Summer under the table.

Arya catches the envious look Nymeria shots the other direwolf, but doesn’t bother copying the action. Nymeria does _not_ like cooked food. Arya is pretty sure she’s never seen an animal so insulted in her life the first time she attempted to feed her.

"He didn’t do anything interesting though, just spent all day with Grandmaester Pycelle, reading old books." Her little brother shrugs.

Arya wrinkles her nose. She doesn’t like Pycelle. At all. The grey rat — as she’s heard some of the servant girls call him behind his back, their voices steeped in derision — exaggerates his weakness as though that somehow turns it into a strength. Worse he looks at Sansa like the older boys at Winterfell used to look at her and that makes Arya want to tear his eyes out. At least Prince Joffrey never does that, never makes Arya itchy with the need to bury a spoon in his eyeball the moment his gaze rests on her sister.

Still, that’s not the point right now. The point is, their father is worried. Has been for days now, always far away with his thoughts — always watching them _too_ closely when he finally does pay attention. Arya doesn’t like it. And why would he need Pycelle of all people? Father likes the man even less than Arya does!

Something about all of this is very wrong, and Arya refuses to be kept out of the loop and dance around in the flower gardens like Sansa so happily does. Like nothing’s wrong.

"He must be looking for something," she declares. Sends Bran a smirk her little brother mirrors eagerly. "Let’s find out what."

* * *

It takes them a while to track down their father. Who’d have thought he would be in his own study of all places? They manage though and Arya finds them a small creak they can slip behind, from where they can observe the entrance. Nobody comes by though, not even Grandmaester Pycelle. By the time Father finally deigns to leave his room, Arya’s legs are cramping and Nymeria has run off to cause chaos elsewhere.

They follow their father through the long hallways of the Red Keep. Bran’s steps are quieter, but Arya knows more shortcuts and hidden passages, so they make good work, especially once they figure out where their father’s heading: the Tower of the Hand.

Which just leaves them with one problem, they can’t get into the tower without the guards at every door noticing. And they aren’t Northmen who might let get Arya and Bran away with their antics, either. These men are loyal to Jon Arryn and Arya really doesn’t want to receive another talk on proper behavior in the king’s own home from her father, thank you.

"What now?" Bran kicks a little stone. They’re walking through the garden around the Tower of the Hand, which is as green and flowery as all the others. Summer yips excitedly and jumps after the little stone.

Arya tilts her head back to eye the tower. It’s high, but not that much higher than their broken one at home. And she’s never been in there, but during their first day, Father had pointed out which window belongs to the Hand’s chambers.

"Do you think you could climb it?" she asks. It’s a fair question, even though Arya is of the firm opinion that Bran can climb anything when he puts his mind to it.

The way her little brother lights up at the question is answer enough. Although his face falls a moment later. "Father made me promise not to. He said it’s too dangerous. The guards here don’t know me, they might shoot me down." Even as he says it, though, Arya can see him eying the tower’s wall, figuring out where it would be safe to place his hands and get a hold with his feet.

Eyes narrowed in thought, Arya takes another glance at their surroundings. "The guards at the entrance don’t move from the door until midday and the window is on the opposite site of the tower. And the garden is only patrolled by a single guard every couple of hours."

It’s actually one of the least patrolled areas within the Red Keep. One of the kitchen boys told Arya that it’s because this garden is their direwolves’ favorite playing ground, though for the life of her Arya can’t figure out what that has to do with anything. It offers a convenient excuse for her to be here though, so she’s willing to take it.

Still, Bran hesitates.

"You know Father isn’t going to tell us what’s bothering him even if we ask, right?" Arya asks pointedly. "But he might tell Jon Arryn, they’re close friends. This might be our only real chance to learn what’s going on."

Bran’s brows furrows as he contemplates that and doubtlessly comes to the same conclusion a moment later. His frown smoothes out and he gives the tower another long, gauging stare before he nods, shoulders straightening.

"Alright, I’ll do it."

Arya forces herself not to check their surroundings again. No need to behave suspiciously before they’ve even started. "Don’t fall."

Bran flashes her a cheeky grin. "I never do." And with that, he’s off.

* * *

{ _Tower of the Hand_ }

When Ned had last spoken with Jon, he’d promised himself he wouldn’t return for answers, no matter what his subsequent search would reveal. Out of respect for Jon’s divided loyalties, but also because his old friend had asked him to drop the matter and Ned had not — could not — honor that request.

Yet here he is, once more staring at his old friend, wondering how much of the man he used to know so well still remains and how much this city’s poison has scraped off, so slowly even Jon himself hasn’t noticed. He curses himself for this thought immediately, hates to dishonor his friend like this, but Ned can’t help it.

This city with all its lies and carefully upheld facades has cost Robert his life, has led to the inexplicable disappearance of Elyanna Baratheon and has set in motion the circumstances that may have well led to the burning of Oldtown. Ned cannot, in good conscience, let this go — not with little Jon’s life on the line.

Worse yet, even though he’s almost certain he’s found exactly what he’d been looking for, he doesn’t understand what it _means_. Which brings him back, once more facing Jon over the dark wood of his desk, covered in enough reports to make Ned’s eyes itch preemptively.

"Ned." Jon doesn’t continue, but Ned hears the _don’t make me do this_ loud and clear.

It doesn’t stop Ned from handing him the notes squiggled onto loose sheets of paper, hidden in the false bottom of the lowest drawer in Pycelle’s head. Beneath a sack of gold coins, possibly a coincidence, potentially meant do distract from the real prey. Ned inwardly grimaces when he realizes that he’s starting to sound like Catelyn in one of her more paranoid moods.

Despite his unvoiced plea, Jon accepts the notes without complaint. His gaze lingers on the parchment, but only a cursory glance. It confirms what Ned suspected — Jon already knows what Pycelle’s notes reveal. And he reads something between the lines that still escapes Ned’s understanding or he would have had Pycelle hanged for treason long before Oldtown went up in flames.

Poisoning an heir to the Iron Throne is after all the definition of treason.

Jon drops the notes with a sigh. "You never brought me this."

"Pardon?" Ned raises his eyebrows.

"If you had brought these to the Hand of the King, I would have no choice but to act on them. But you, Ned, are my friend, I am no Hand and I have never seen this. You never shared it with me, nor _anyone else_."

"Why?" Ned tries very hard to keep his outrage from seeping into his voice, though he doubts he’s fooling Jon. Still better than revealing what he’s found by screaming it off the Tower of the Hand though. "Pycelle _poisoned_ Princess Elyanna! These records prove as much! They confirm that he was testing her resistance, that he was experimenting on her to gain a deeper understanding of the workings of poison and their antidotes. How can I, how can _you_ keep this matter quiet?!"

It’s true that Pycelle does not seem to have acted in the interest of eliminating the princess. Instead it appears that despite her weak disposition, the princess showed a natural resistance towards common poisons and Pycelle grew more and more fascinated studying it and her unique reactions to other medicines, harmless and decidedly not. It makes for a disturbing read that gets worse the longer it goes on. Ned will have to look into other physicians available because there’s no way he’s going to let the _esteemed_ Grandmaester near any of his children.

[Cersei Lannister will kill Pycelle herself the second she catches wind of any of this. Ned knows that with the same certainty he knows she has spoken nothing but the truth to him during their late-night encounter. So why hasn’t Jon told her?]

"By focusing on my duty, which is to the King of the Seven Realms as should yours be, Ned." Jon’s voice gains a new sharpness that Ned hasn’t heard from him in a long while. "The girl has been dead for months and still holds the Prince in an unrelenting grasp. At least her mother and younger siblings are finally recovering from their obsession with the girl and it is my responsibility to ensure it will stay that way. The royal family has put the well-being of one child before the entire realm for too long and _nothing good_ has come of it."

That’s the thing about Jon Arryn: he doesn’t get loud when he gets angry, he gets cold.

"The girl has been nothing but trouble from the day she was born. Too weak to survive, and yet she had the entire household wrapped around her little finger. Robert wasted more gold on indulging her whims than he did on any tournament and Cersei refused to fulfill even the most fundamental of her duties the second she thought the girl had need of her. The way they pandered to the girl’s wishes was painful to watch, all the more so because it was the crown, the entire realm that suffered for it." Jon exhales, slow and precise. "I’m not unburying that girl’s ghost, Ned. The Kingdom has suffered enough for her antics, will continue to do so for as long as Joffrey remains obsessed with her ghost. I’ll not add to that burden."

"You—" Ned stares at Jon with new eyes. "She was but a child, Jon. Her parents failings are not her own." He shakes his head. "This isn’t like you. To blame a little girl, to discard her so easily. Jon, what in the name of the Old Gods and the New has gotten into you?"

"So you haven’t noticed." The words are spoken quietly, barely audible. There’s a humor in Jon’s tone that doesn’t fit the grave expression he wears when he meets Ned’s eyes, something painful and tired lurking underneath the stony exterior. "Tell me, Ned, what do you remember of the old tales? Of the Long Night that will end the world in one final battle of fire and ice? Of men shedding their skin and becoming one with an animal of their choice instead? Of the power in Weirwood trees and the ravens that are ever-watching?"

Ned leans back in his chair in confusion. "Those are just stories. Old wives tales to scare the children into behaving." Even as he says the words though, he’s not sure how much he believes them. His father used to make light of the stories the smallfolk told, but Benjen has told him of some of things he’s witnessed beyond the Wall — and Ned knows his brother well enough to know for sure that those same stories he shares are just the most believable ones. After all, some of the Southern families were quite certain that direwolves, too, are a thing of legends.

"Most of them surely are," Jon agrees. "But like rumors, myths are often based on true occurrences. And there are many stories all over Westeros of people who can do things beyond the capabilities of mere men. Most of them ridiculous or silly, yes. You know me, Ned, I don’t have the patience for these things. Wood witches, wargs, I’ve never given a damn whether they're real, as long as they keep out of the way. But believe me when I tell you this, Ned: There was something wrong with the girl."

"The princess?"

"She fell off a window ledge from the third floor and didn’t so much as break a bone, Ned." Jon’s voice betrays no emotions. "Those poisons Pycelle played with, those were just the last in a long line of things that should’ve killed her."

Ned hesitates, contemplating. "Children are strong, even those that may appear weak. They can be capable of astonishing feats when pressed. They can also be very lucky." The Old Gods know, Bran should’ve broken his back three times over by now.

But Jon is already shaking his head before he’s finished speaking. "Not like this, Ned. Not like she did. Besides— I saw her once. When she was but a toddler, no older than four. She argued with Maester Colmar because she didn’t want to drink the medicine he’d given her and when he refused to relent she told him she’d already taken it. The cup stood untouched right in front of him and he _believed_ her. Even assured me the princess had taken her medicine when I asked him about it." Jon takes a sip from his cup, but doesn’t quite manage to hide the trembling of his hands, the sudden pallor in his cheeks. "I thought I was mad at first. But there were other— incidences. No, Ned. A child she may have been, and a weak one at that, but the girl was a danger to herself and everyone around her, whether she meant to be or not."

Ned closes his eyes, tries to calm his racing thoughts. A memory rises unbidden to the forefront of his mind, of Robb, a couple of days before he’d left for King’s Landing. The boy had shown him a new trick he’d worked on with his direwolf cub and Ned had watched his heir do nothing but stare into Grey Wind’s eyes for a long moment before the cub had turned around, run away and come back a few moments later with a scarf Sansa had knitted for Robb in his snout and a wagging tail. _I just told him I was cold_, Robb had told him with a smile and Ned hadn’t known what to say other than to praise his son for training the direwolf so well. But this isn’t the time to wonder, right now Ned needs to focus on the present and decide whether or not he believes Jon’s tale. It sounds mad, it does — but Jon’s never been one to let his own imagination run away with him.

"Even if what you say is true, the child is dead," is the answer Ned finally settles on. "And whatever her faults, Elyanna Baratheon was a princess of the Seven Kingdoms and Pycelle needs to be punished for his actions."

"_Ned_." Jon’s eyes are dark. "Those powers— capabilities such as the ones I’ve seen with my own eyes, they don’t come out of nowhere. They are _hereditary_. And neither Cersei Lannisters _nor_ Robert Baratheon are known for any such abilities."

[_A bastard child with the ability to twist the minds of those around her to her liking? We are lucky she died before she could cause any more damage_, Jon doesn’t say, but Ned knows his friend well and he reads those damning words in the man’s face loud and clear.]

A long moment of silence passes as Ned tries to find his footing again. Before he has the chance to do so, Jon picks up Pycelle’s damning notes and hands them to him. "Take these and burn them — or put them back where you found them, if you must. But the Kingdom is already suffering and whether or not the prince will be strong enough to stabilize it remains to be seen. Ned, this isn’t the time to seek justice for a dead girl. Lay her ghost to rest and forget we ever had this conversation. Neither the King Mother nor Prince Joffrey can learn of this. They will burn the entire world for the memory of this girl, but it won’t bring her back to life — and may the Seven forgive me, but I, for one, am grateful for it."

* * *

{ _King’s Landing_ }

"Anything of interest?" Petyr doesn’t bother to look up from where he’s going over the numbers of his most popular brothel. His winnings are nothing to scoff at, but he’s fairly sure one of the girls is keeping some of her pay for herself. It’s a pity, really. She’s a promising girl — but Petyr’s never had much patience with bad investments.

"Lord Stark has spent the past few days in Grandmaester Pycelle’s study, m’lord," the kitchen boy shrugs. "Ate his meals there and everything. I couldn’t tell what he’s reading though."

No, of course the boy couldn’t. Street rats were all good and well as a source of information, but they did come with their own weaknesses and limitations. And despite the steady pay the boy received, not just from Petyr himself but from the crown, and maybe even from Varys, if he knows his _dear friend_ at all.

"I see. Anything else?"

The boy shrugs. "He’s been seeing the Hand of the King a lot, too, but that’s about it."

Petyr doesn’t react to that new tidbit in any way except to hand the boy his coins and tell him to get lost. That’s one of the most important parts of running an information network as carefully spun as his own — never let anyone know which information holds the most value to your. Because all information is valuable, even — especially — his own reaction to any news. To Varys and Cersei and even Arryn, especially.

Only when the boy has closed the door behind him does Petyr allow himself to set down his quill and lean back into his chair with a thoughtful smile. '_Meetings between the Hand and Ned Stark, hmm. I wonder what they have to discuss?_'

It’s sooner than initially anticipated, but perhaps the time has come to put another one of his plans into motion. The last few weeks have been fairly uneventful after all, and King’s Landing could do with a bit of chaos.

* * *

{ _The Narrow Sea_ }

Harry is staring at the night sky. It’s a clear night and they’re in the middle of the ocean, so he’s had ample time to determine that the stars really are different in this world. There’s no Sirius constellation for one and Harry would recognize that one everywhere.

It’s odd, maybe, that the thought doesn’t bother him as much as Harry thinks it should. Then again, nothing has felt _completely_ right since Not-Luna did her freaky power show on him. That’s not to say that he’s feeling wrong either, just off. Like he’s still following the same path as before, just two meters to the left, in the thick of the undergrowth.

He’s still not whole — and now that Harry remembers some of how he used to feel, he can tell the difference — if anything the divide is easier to identify now, yet something deep inside him, something important he can’t fully grasp, has changed. Has _been_ changed.

Harry feels better, that much is true. Like two broken pieces inside him that kept getting cut upon at each other’s edges, have been soothed. But the mere fact that this sudden ease he feels inside his own body stems from someone else’s work makes him uncomfortable. Harry doesn’t know what Luna did, if she worked on his magic, his mind, his body, and he can’t tell what consequences her supposed reward — or consolation, and that’s another scary thought he doesn’t want to look at too closely — will entail.

Nevertheless, Luna’s been truthful about one thing: Without her intervention, Harry would have failed. He hadn’t been aware of how deep this divide inside him goes and now that he does— The blood magic would have torn him apart. Literally. Would have been drawn to the already existing break and torn him open.

Even now, with whatever bandages Luna’s managed to tack over the wound, it still might. He has a shot though. Harry has already finished his meditation exercises for the day and he’s noticed the marked improvement in his magical channels. Perhaps all those speeches Madam Pomfrey used to give him about how the health of the mind affects the body and magic as well were onto something. Perhaps its his own efforts these past few days that are making a difference. Most likely, it’s a combination of both.

In all honesty, Harry would benefit from a few more days of rest, to give his magic time to fully settle into himself again, clear his channels completely, before he seeks out the ritual site. But Harry has always been very in tune with his instincts and it’s those same instincts that are currently driving him, pushing him, to complete the ritual as soon as humanly possible.

_You’re running out of time_, they whisper and for all that Harry doesn’t understand what could possibly stop him from accessing the ritual site in a few weeks or months time, when he’s in a better condition, he trusts his instincts — no matter what Luna may have been trying to imply.

She’s implied many things, most, if not all of them things Harry doesn’t want to hear or think about any further.

"Eli?" Jarren’s sleep-rough voice pulls Harry out of his contemplation and he turns towards the man. "The hell are you doing?"

Her lips twitch into a smile almost against her will. It’s taken a long time to break Jaime of his habit of not cursing in front of her, but they’re getting there.

"Just thinking."

"Well, don’t do it so _loud_." Jaime shoots a pointed glance towards her hands.

Startled, Harry looks down only to notice that he’s been holding on of his arrows in his hand this whole time. And has absent-mindedly carved something into the wood below him. And not just anything, a perfectly drawn equilateral triangle. He hastily places a hand over the wood and urges it to regrow until no sign of his bout of destruction of property remains, but that does nothing to chase the cold feeling of dread out from where it’s carved itself into his bones.

* * *

{ _Joffrey’s Study_ }

Joffrey stares blankly down at the message a nervous page has just brought him. He’s not sure yet how many hands this particular piece of paper has already passed through, how many already know, but he supposes it doesn’t matter. This is King’s Landing, most secrets here don’t stay that way for long.

He should probably be angry. A part of him — larger than Joffrey would like — wants to be. Wants to turn over his desk in his fury, have the page beheaded for daring to bring him these news, wants to— But that part is drowned out by the disbelief and confusion he’s felt since he read the letter for the first time. Annoyance too, for doesn’t he already have enough on his plate to deal with? Does he really need these troubles on top of everything else? And then there is the fear.

Not the fear of the sender of this message, mind you. No, the fear what his mother will do when she hears these news because Mother, Mother will know. And so will Elyanna when word inevitably reaches her ears.

Elyanna, who has been traveling to Dragonstone. _Fuck_.

"What is it, princeling?" The hound snaps eventually, once he inevitably grows tired of Joffrey’s tirade of curses. Which is extensive, thanks in no small part to the man in question.

Joffrey faces his sworn sword with the same smile he’ll have plastered over his face during the many emergency meetings that will follow this letter. A cold, empty one, full of teeth and rage, all focused on a single target.

"My uncle accuses me of being a kingslayer and kinslayer and thus unworthy of inheriting the Iron Throne. He resigns his place on the Small Council effective immediately, demands I forfeit my claim and has declared himself the rightful heir to the Iron Throne."

A deep, forceful breath to keep his voice level. Then Joffrey opens his eyes again and forces himself to meet Clegane’s eyes, no matter what he’ll see there. The man looks back, appearing for all intents and purposes unsurprised. Joffrey refuses to allow the smudge of relief he feels at the lack of horror or judgement on the man’s face. It’s not like he cares about anyone’s opinion and certainly not the Hound’s. Nevertheless, he sags into himself when the growing tension between them dissipates just like that.

Chances another glance at his uncle’s familiar scrawl that makes him want to set the letter on fire.

"Do you think Elyanna would be terribly upset if I order his death?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show of hands: How many of you expected me to push or shoot Bran down that Tower? [<strike>And how many of you are still expecting it to happen in the next chapter?</strike>] *cackles evilly*  
In other news, things are on a roll in King's Landing and Harry isn't really doing much except get himself into more trouble, what else is new. Also the kitchen boy Baelish talked to? Yep, that'd be Mern. And I'm really curious: Did any of you see Jon Arryn coming? I'm genuinely not trying to bash him, but I wanted to use the chance to give you an outside glance at the [slightly disturbing] Lannister/Baratheon family dynamics and how it might look from a different point of view. And I wonder what Baelish is up to...  
If you have a moment, please share your thoughts and suspicions in a comment! I love hearing from you, your enthusiasm and kind words keep me coming back to this story again and again. Also we're living in interesting times and if you really enjoyed this chapter but are just too damn tired of everything to write a comment, that's perfectly fine! I just hope you enjoyed this chapter and that it was a pleasant surprise amidst the troubles of real life. Have a great weekend and don't forget to take care of yourself!


	30. part x

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "_Choose the king you wish to support and choose soon, Lord Stark. I’m told none of them have much of a tolerance for treason._"
> 
> In which Ned is drawn back and forth between two potential kings, Sansa has too much faith in humanity, Pycelle and Jon Arryn are more alike than anyone realizes, Cersei learns an unpleasant truth, and Harry sets foot onto Dragonstone. In other words: tensions rise.

_296 AC_

{_ King’s Landing_ }

It’s late. Ned should’ve gone to bed a long time ago. But sleep continues to elude him, so he might as well spend the remaining hours until dawn in his study, brooding. Cat would tease him, if she could see him now, but even the thought of his dear wife fails to bring a smile to his face. Not in the least because Catelyn would be far less amused once she hears of everything Ned’s learned since his arrival at the Red Keep.

It’s not the first time that Ned wishes his wife could’ve accompanied him, but it’s the first time that he admits to himself that it’s not just because he misses her company. Catelyn would’ve been better suited than he is to handle the intricacies of court politics. Catelyn would’ve known the right words to convince Jon that Pycelle would have to face judgement for his actions, whether or not Elyanna Baratheon’s legitimacy could be called into question. Catelyn would’ve known how to present what he’s discovered to the King Mother without handing her more ammunition to use against him. [Without making her feel _threatened_.]

Ned rubs his temples in the vain hope of staving off his building headache.

There’s no point in wasting his time wishing things could be different though. This, Ned admits to himself with a dark glare towards the parchment resting innocently on his desk, is the way things are.

Robert is dead, has been dead for more than four moons by now, and though Ned misses his brother in all but blood, the grief is not as painful as it used to be. He has other worries to focus on now — at least that was what Ned assumed. Until now. Until this trice damned letter reached him.

A letter written and signed by Stannis Baratheon, declaring for the Iron Throne. And — more troubling — accusing Joffrey Baratheon of murdering his own father, Robert Baratheon.

If only Ned hadn’t received this letter. If only he didn’t already know what it says by heart. It’s a cowardly wish and Ned dismisses immediately, but the matter remains: He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with this.

When Ned had first learned of Robert’s tragic death — tragic because it had occurred in his own chambers instead of on a battlefield, the way Robert would’ve wanted to go — he had been saddened but not terribly surprised. Robert had been restless, had grown dissatisfied with his way of life and though it wasn’t a kind thought, Ned had been sure that the moment Robert had learned of the break-out inside the Red Keep, he’d thrown himself into the fray and had payed the ultimate price for it.

And sure, there had never been a break-out from the cellars of the Red Keep that Ned remembered, but that hadn’t been reason enough to suspect foul play. Guards could be brought after all and assuming a targeted assassination had seemed paranoid even to him. Especially since the Queen and the Small Council would have done anything to get to the bottom of the truth.

Now, though, Ned can’t help but question how naive he’s been to simply accept his old friend’s death the way he has. Can’t help but wonder if it’s true. And, worse perhaps — [Did Jon know? Did he suspect? Or was this another inconvenient secret he decided to bury for the sake of upholding the peace?]

Ned doesn’t know whom or what to believe. Robert’s been dead for so long, it’s impossible to say what might have been revealed in the immediate aftermath, and there’s no way he’ll be able to ask questions regarding this without implicating himself more than he already has. It doesn’t help that the accusation stems from Stannis — who has, after all, had a complicated relationship with Robert and who is by no means a neutral party in all of this considering he’s trying to claim the Iron Throne for himself.

Which is daring, to say the least. Even if he is telling the truth — and Ned doesn’t know what he’ll do if he does — there’s still the matter of Robert’s daughters, who also have a claim to the throne. They are too young to rule, of course, Myrcella is barely six years old and a girl besides. It stands to reason that the Lords would prefer Stannis, a more secure option, over having Cersei Lannister rule in her daughter’s stead. But it is by no means a given — not in the least because Tywin Lannister will naturally favor the latter option. And considering the laws on inheritance do not exclude women from the Iron Throne, for all that they usually aren’t the preferred choice, it might even be the rightful choice, for all that the Kingdom will be more vulnerable for the unrest that would follow the announcement of such a rule.

Thus, for all that Stannis has an indirect claim, his declaration is a bold move, unexpected of the dour man whom Ned recalls to be someone who values law and duty above all else. To disregard two of Robert’s heirs so carelessly does not paint a good picture of Stannis’ intentions, all the more so because until now nothing has pointed towards Joffrey having a hand in Robert’s unfortunate demise. On the other hand, Ned likes to think that he does know Stannis fairly well. And the man he remembers — the man Robert used to complain about so often — would not take an accusation as serious as kin- or kingslaying lightly. He would not send out a public declaration to the Higher Houses of Westeros unless he was sure of his findings and his own position.

It leads to another question Ned wishes he wouldn’t find himself contemplating as often as he does, but between Oldtown, Jon’s revelations and now Stannis’ bid for the throne he’s left with no choice but to wonder: _What kind of boy is Joffrey Baratheon really?_ [Would the boy that has asked him for Sansa’s hand with a straight spine and respectful air be capable of murdering his own father in cold blood, of burning an entire town to ashes? And. If true— <strike>What kind of king would such a boy grow to become?</strike>]

* * *

{ _Red Keep_ }

Arya wouldn’t admit it under pain of death, but she breathes easier once Bran’s feet finally touch the ground again. Watching her brother climb the Tower of the Hand is far more nerve-wracking than it used to be to see Bran explore their own roofs in Winterfell. Possibly because Arya knows that nobody would touch Bran there, that Bran knows every nook and cranny of their home and would never do something as silly as miss a step. Maybe the only difference is that Arya isn’t usually watching him, waiting for him to get down before a guard shows up.

They’ve been lucky though. Bran had remained undetected and just like the kitchen boy — Mern, wasn’t it? — told her, no guard had passed the garden the entire time.

Her relief lasts until she catches sight of Bran’s pale face and wide eyes. "What is it? What did they say?"

"Pycelle poisoned the Princess Elyanna!" Bran hisses from behind clenched teeth.

"_What_?!" Arya winces at the sound of her own exclamation. It’s too loud, especially in the otherwise peaceful garden. She grabs Bran’s hand and pulls him along one of the small pathways, further away from the tower and potential eavesdroppers.

This is not a conversation anyone else should hear. From the way Bran’s grip tightens around her, he agrees. He’s trembling faintly too, Arya can feel it, though she can’t tell if it’s from the exhaustion of the long climb or from nervous energy.

"Tell me everything!" she demands the moment they’ve hidden themselves away behind thick bushes that will make attempting to get close enough to them to hear their conversation very uncomfortable for any potential listener. Not to mention that Summer’s attentively watching them and Arya doesn’t need to see her to know that Nymeria is around here somewhere and will bite anyone who tries to sneak up on them.

Father keeps insisting Arya needs to train her out of that, but she doesn’t really get it. Isn’t it their own fault if they try to bother her?

And Bran does. In between gasping for air and shaking his head wildly as though he can’t believe his own story he tells her of the argument between Father and Lord Arryn. Lord Arryn who is a good friend, who is smart and honorable and who is _protecting_ the murderer of a princess. A princess _with magic powers_.

Arya has no words for how incredible that is, which only makes her more angry at that stupid grey rat for denying her the chance to meet the princess. Even if she’s a bastard — and Bran admits that he isn’t sure if that’s what Lord Arryn meant or if he meant that the King Mother also has secret powers [and Arya absolutely needs to find out if she does because that would be the single best thing she’s heard since arriving at King’s Landing] — her brother Jon’s a bastard too and he’s the best brother ever. Arya knows that the idea that bastards are somehow bad is just a stupid rule grown-ups make up to make names seem more important, and she’s long chosen to ignore it.

"What on Earth are you doing here?" Sansa’s voice descends out of nowhere upon them. The next moment, the thick bushes part for her sister, not a hair out of place or a spec of dirt on her dress. Arya thinks she could hate Sansa for that if she wasn’t so baffled how her sister manages it. "Arya, you’re supposed to wear the dress I laid out for you this morning! And Bran, Septa Mordane has been searching you since midday!"

Arya shoots Summer a withering glare for the lack of warning, but all the traitor does is wag his tail. At least Nymeria has the sense not to consider Sansa part of her pack, but of course her girl is still nowhere to be seen. Hopefully she’s not hunting cats again. Arya hates having to clean up the blood and Father will insist that she’ll clean up the mess she’s responsible for. Not unlike how he wants Pycelle to have to face the consequences for his actions.

But while Arya has long learned that it’s best not to argue with Sansa when she’s in a mood, Bran still hasn’t grasped the difference between _not lying_ and _telling the truth even though no one asks for it_. One of these days, Arya will have to sit her little brother down and explain in small words he’ll understand that you don’t include Sansa in a secret unless you have enough dirt on her to ensure it’ll _stay_ a secret. Because Sansa is as stubborn as any of them and she’ll do what she wants with it if you can’t stop her with a convincing enough argument.

Unfortunately, today is not that day, and so Bran inevitably opens his stupid, big mouth and blurts out: "Princess Elyanna was poisoned!"

Arya stamps on Bran’s toes — _hard_ — but she isn’t fast enough.

For a moment Sansa freezes and time stills. Then her sister blinks and slowly turns her head towards Bran, cheeks a fair bit paler than before. "What did you just say," Sansa says in her most pleasant voice, the one that’s usually reserved for those instances in which Arya embarrasses her in full view and earshot of the royal family. It never fails to make Arya want to turn invisible, if only because she’s well aware that for all of Sansa’s manners, she’s as vindictive as they come. Probably learned it from their mother.

Bran swallows. "Uhm. Just— Just that Grandmaester Pycelle poisoned Princess Elyanna and now the Prince and the King Mother can’t find out because they’ll burn down the entire world?" he stutters out.

Arya resists the urge to slap her own forehead in exasperation — although it takes all of her not unlimited self-control to do so. _Really_, Bran? Why is it, that of all her siblings she’s stuck with the two with the least common sense?

"Be quiet!" Sansa snaps, so unexpectedly harsh even Arya flinches. "Bran, you cannot speak lightly of such terrible things! What if someone heard? This isn’t funny, this isn’t a joke! Such lies could end a man’s life — or even your own!"

"I’m not lying!" Bran scowls. "Father himself told Lord Arryn!"

"What?"

"It’s true!" Arya chimes in because it’s too late now to keep Sansa out of this, they might as well tell her everything. "Bran climbed the tower and caught an argument between Father and Lord Arryn. Lord Arryn knows what Pycelle did, and Father wanted him to tell the Queen and the Prince the truth but Lord Arryn refused because the princess could do magic! Right, Bran?"

"You _climbed_ the Tower of the Hand?" Sansa’s tone could freeze a direwolf. Except probably Nymeria, who’d have tried to bite her if she was around. Arya hasn’t decided yet whether it’s a good thing or not that she isn’t, but probably not. Sansa can be stupid about the oddest of things and her gut tells Arya this is gonna be one of those things.

"Well, yes, but only because Father won’t tell us what’s wrong!" Bran defends himself with a huff.

"He doesn’t tell us everything because he isn’t obligated to and it’s not our right to know!" Sansa’s snipes. "That’s certainly no reason to climb the Tower of the Hand, are you mad? You could’ve gotten yourself killed! Or worse, gotten caught and embarrassed Father in front of Lord Arryn and the crown! And to speak such despicable lies— have you learned _nothing_ in all the time we’ve been here? Prince Joffrey, the entire royal family, they’re suffering. They’re grieving the loss of their sister, their daughter. The last thing they need is ugly rumors opening up old wounds because you heard half a conversation through an open window and drew the wildest conclusions that came to mind! Never mind that Grandmaester Pycelle is a respected member of the the Order of Maesters—" "_Not much of an order now_," Arya mutters and is summarily ignored, "— and is part of the Small Council besides, it’s ridiculous that he’d act against a princess of the Seven Kingdoms! Now get up, you’re already late for your lessons!"

"But—"

"But nothing! I won’t hear anymore of this!"

Arya bites her lip hard enough to bleed and waits until Sansa’s back is turned before she mouths a quick "We’ll talk later!" in Bran’s direction. Like hell is she gonna let her sister’s dream of being queen stop her from uncovering what it is that her father and Lord Arryn are getting up to. Especially if it means getting rid off Pycelle, whose wandering eyes stray far too often in Sansa’s direction.

* * *

{ _Tower of the Hand_ }

Pycelle is a smart man. Despite the impression he consciously cultivates, he has received first his maester’s chain and later on the title of Grandmaester that he prides himself on through his own merits. It shouldn’t shock or surprise anyone. In fact, Pycelle genuinely doubts that he has any of his fellow Small Council members completely fooled. That doesn’t change that they all have a role to play, an image to uphold and they do — and none of them are entirely certain where the show stops and reality begins.

It is precisely this uncertainty that affords him — all of them — certain liberties. As long as they do not overstep their bounds, as long as the act within the parameters of their duties, as long as they aren’t blatant in their disregard for the rules, their freedom remains largely unobstructed.

As such, when Pycelle is called to Jon Arryn’s personal chambers late at night to soothe the fever that has been bothering the lord for the past day, Pycelle is well-aware of the kind of opportunity he is afforded here.

He’s only had his suspicions before — there is hardly a way for the Hand of the King to fall ill without evoking some kind of suspicion — but once he is _finally_ — for Lord Arryn is only marginally less hard-headed than the Starks are rumored to be — allowed to take a closer look at the man’s state, it’s only a matter of a few routine checks to confirm them.

[Poisons, after all, are an art Pycelle has studied extensively, long before he’d first encountered Princess Elyanna Baratheon with her odd metabolism that didn’t follow any of the long established rules he was familiar with. Over the years, Pycelle has only grown better at understanding the workings of various common and less common poisons, as well as their antidotes. Recognizing any of them at work is part of Pycelle’s job. And no matter what he likes to make the people around him believe — his body may begin to fail him, but his mind has yet to suffer the same weakness.]

No, Pycelle recognizes the poison working itself through Jon Arryn’s veins and thus knows all too well that without administration of the antidote, the Hand of the King is unlikely to make it through the night — for all that his body appears to handle the fever well so far. Which leaves Pycelle in the unique position of either foiling what he is certain is another grab for power, either by Stannis Baratheon or the as of yet unknown force behind King Robert Baratheon’s death, or pretend to not have noticed the signs of what they are and leave Jon Arryn to his fate.

[After all, in spite of Elyanna Baratheon’s odd resistance, the human body can only endure so much.]

Both options come with advantages and disadvantages. One of the greatest problems is perhaps that Pycelle isn’t sure who is behind this attempt and how powerful an enemy he’ll make if he interferes. He can guess of course — there’s only so many people who have an interested in Jon Arryn’s death and the means to see it done — but nothing concrete or meaningful. Then, there is the question of what the lord himself would do in reaction to the attempt on his life. Jon Arryn is not a careless man or he wouldn’t have held himself afloat in the dangerous waters of King’s Landing for longer than Pycelle himself has served the crown.

In the end, what it comes down to is the simple fact that Jon Arryn has never made a secret of his dislike of Pycelle. Has always been a bit too curious, asked too many uncomfortable questions. First about Princess Elyanna and the queen’s alcohol consumption, later about King Robert’s untimely end. He’d been careful even then, never outright voiced accusations, but Pycelle hasn’t forgotten his probing. Hasn’t forgotten that night when someone took the chance the king’s death offered and tore apart his room in search for information Pycelle would much rather keep hidden.

It might not have been Arryn that night. It’s unlikely, even.

But Arryn has proven himself troublesome time and again, and whoever decided to put the Hand of the King into the ground and is bold enough to do so in the core of the Red Keep is not someone whom Pycelle wants to offend without cause. Not when they are doing him a favor by removing a potential threat before Pycelle himself is forced to act because Arryn inevitable gets a little too close to the truth.

Pycelle doesn’t smile. This isn’t his first day playing this particular game. So he hums and haws and flutters about uselessly, gives the lord something against the steadily rising fever and nothing against the poison in his blood, and leaves Jon Arryn’s fate for the gods to decide.

By twilight, Jon Arryn is dead and Lysa Arryn and her son have escaped King’s Landing.

* * *

{ _King’s Landing_ }

It’s funny how grief can change a person’s perception.

Ned still vaguely remembers that back before the rebellion started, before he declared war on his king to avenge his father’s and brother’s murder, he used to be so angry at Lyanna. Not for getting herself kidnapped by Prince Rhaegar — that was hardly her fault — but for everything before that. For the mess she’d made of the Tournament of Harrenhal, for threatening to run away every time Father managed an engagement until he got fed up and betrothed her to Robert even though Ned told him Lyanna didn’t like his friend, for being unreasonable and unwilling to listen and so busy fighting the world, she could never stop for a moment, take a breath and recognize when someone tried to reach out to her and _help_.

So yes, Ned had been angry at Lyanna for so many things. And when he’d finally found her, when she’d died in his arms after demanding one more promise of him, laid one more secret onto him, the weight of which he’d have to shoulder for the rest of his life, he’d been angry then too.

He’d been halfway back to King’s Landing before the realization that his sister was dead had truly hit him and though Ned is ashamed of it to this day, it wasn’t until Robert had greeted him, had looked him in the eyes and seen the truth, had _shattered_, that Ned truly decided to keep his oath and introduced the babe as Jon Snow.

[To this day, Ned doesn’t know whether he’s done it for his sister or for the man who loved her, but would have made her hate him beyond even death by killing the one person she loved more than anyone, even her freedom. He supposes at this point it doesn’t matter anymore.]

Ned hadn’t parted on good terms with Jon either — and how is it, that he never manages to make things right, to rebuild broken bridges before death catches up with them all? They hadn’t ended things with insults and broken oaths, but Ned hadn’t been happy with Jon’s decisions and he’d made sure his friend knew that. All the more so because Jon had asked him to honor his wishes, to keep his word and let the matter of Princess Elyanna’s poisoning go.

And now, within the blink of an eye, the man whose been more of a father to him than the man who’d fathered him ever was is gone. _Fever and old age_, had been all the answer Grandmaester Pycelle had been able to give them, appearing as useless and unthreatening as always. The King Mother had sniped, Prince Joffrey had been outraged — though the prince rarely isn’t furious these days —, Varys had been quiet and Baelish had shaken his head at them all.

Not unlike with Lyanna, Ned is still angry with Jon. Death hasn’t simply disintegrated those feelings, all the more so because now he has to make the decision whether to honor Jon’s wish even in death or to confess to Cersei and Joffrey all that he knows of the fate their beloved Elyanna suffered.

For all that Ned doesn’t like Cersei and is growing increasingly wary of Joffrey — the boy who has asked him if he would like a private moment with Jon before his remains would be prepared for transportation back to the Eyrie, where he would be laid to rest, the boy whom Ned is growing more and more sure has burned _an entire city_ to the ground — both of them clearly love the missing Baratheon heiress. Ned can respect that, for all that he dislikes the way they show their affection.

That is the sole reason why he has sought Cersei out, has decided to confront her despite Jon’s misgivings. Jon was a good man, a loyal servant to the crown, but there is something about Elyanna that unsettled him — Ned has seen it in his eyes. And the past few days of watching Cersei shadow her younger daughters every step of the way, of observing how Prince Joffrey turns towards his right sometimes, only to catch himself halfway through as though expecting someone else to stand by his side — Ned isn’t a man of politics, but this is something he understands. And whatever Jon feared this confession would lead to, whatever it will mean for Pycelle’s future, it needs to be done. Because Ned understands grief and he understands love and Prince Joffrey will carry his sister’s ghost with him for the rest of his life if someone doesn’t offer him what closure there is to give.

Even Cersei — Cersei Lannister with her ice cold words and desperate eyes — deserves to know the truth. Every mother [every brother] does.

_Forgive me, Jon_, Ned thinks as he comes to a stand a few steps away from the King Mother. Enough distance to be polite, yet demand to be acknowledged. A few moments pass in silence while Cersei puts on an admirable show of pretending not to see him.

"Lord Stark," she finally deigns to notice him when it becomes obvious that Ned isn’t going anywhere.

"Your Grace. I apologize for disturbing you, but there is something you need to know concerning your daughter Elyanna."

* * *

{ _King’s Landing_ }

Ned Stark’s careless words bring the world to a standstill. Elyanna’s name has a way of doing that to her. Slowly, Cersei turns to face the Northern lord head-on. She hasn’t seen much of the man lately and had assumed the two of them had come to an understanding — though, admittedly, Jon Arryn’s death might have upset that precarious balance. Cersei has never liked the man, who’d always had a lecture about her duties at hand as though she was a child in need of a scolding and whom Robert always showed more respect than he ever bothered to with her — and she likes him even less now that he’s had the indecency to succumb to illness a few short moons before Joffrey’s coronation.

Just because she didn’t like him doesn’t mean Cersei was blind to the man’s value. Jon Arryn was smart, capable and had been running the Small Council since Robert first named him his hand. He was a valuable asset, particularly due to his loyalty towards Robert’s bloodline and though she won’t shed a tear over his passage, he could at least have held on until her father finally deigns to set foot into King’s Landing and can take over where Arryn left off.

But _no_, naturally that too is too much to ask for.

Instead he just has to die now, weakening Joffrey’s position further and robbing the Small Council off one of its more trustworthy members.

And now Ned Stark of all people dares to speak Elyanna’s name so freely, as though he has the _right_ to it.

"Is that so," Cersei says evenly, privately wondering if it would be worth the trouble to call for the guards and have Lord Stark killed on the spot. It might be an overreaction, but it would almost certainly brighten her day.

Somehow she resists the temptation.

"I’m afraid so." The worst part is, Ned Stark even looks genuinely sorry. How this man survived long enough in the North to procreate remains anyone’s guess. Lord Stark must mistake her silence as willingness to listen, for he continues after a moment. "I realize that this is not a good time considering the Small Council has already lost two members within the last two days—"

"Excuse me," Cersei interrupts sharply, not feeling sorry at all, "What do you mean, two members?"

Unless someone had the good sense to whack that occasionally useful, but mostly bothersome Littlefinger to death, Cersei is fairly sure the only person who’s failed to fulfill their duty due to an unfortunate case of death is Jon Arryn — and that’s already bad enough. Unfortunately, the stunned expression on Lord Stark’s far too revealing face tells Cersei that she hasn’t misheard. And even worse, Ned Stark hasn’t misspoken.

"Apologies, your Grace, I assumed you’d heard."

The mere tone with which Lord Stark says those words raises Cersei’s hackles. It implies that there is something _important_ she has missed, something she will either have to kill her spies for or the person responsible for keeping her in the dark on purpose, for if Ned Stark of all people is aware, it cannot be a great secret. And how is Cersei supposed to protect her children when she doesn’t know everything there is to know about the current on-goings of her children and _particularly_ the movements within the Small Council?

"Please, Lord Stark," she grits out, "you’re worrying me."

Even so, he hesitates for a moment before he visibly gathers himself. The foreboding feeling intensifies.

[What. Did. She. Miss.]

"Your Grace, Stannis Baratheon has resigned from his position on the Small Council and has declared himself the rightful heir to the Iron Throne," Lord Stark says heavily and suddenly the dark circles underneath his eyes that she’s taken as signs of grief take on a much more nefarious meaning.

Not that his words aren’t concerning enough. Cersei has never liked Stannis and the feeling is very much mutual. Not in the least because Stannis has ideas about duties and the place of children in a queen’s life that made her want to kill him even on her good days, of which there weren’t many when Stannis was around. At the same time though the idea of Stannis leaving King’s Landing only to try and claim the throne for himself is— ridiculous.

Stannis Baratheon, who served his brother with a stony face for seventeen years despite constant humiliation and disregard, turning against his own line now? No, Stannis wouldn’t declare himself king unless—

Unless he _knows_. But how? The only ones who knew the truth besides herself were Jaime and Elyanna. One is dead, the other lost and if Stannis had so much as suspected anything, he wouldn’t have kept his silence until Robert’s death. He’d have seen her son stoned to death in the streets without so much as batting an eye.

"You truly didn’t know." Lord Stark looks uncomfortable now and it’s enough to refocus Cersei’s drifting attention back onto him, to have her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"There is more." It’s not a question. "Tell me!" It’s all she can do not to grab a hold of his shoulders and shake the answers out of him, all she can do not to _scream_.

[How could she miss this? How could they keep this from here?]

"Indeed. He has declared Prince Joffrey guilty of kingslaying and kinslaying and thus unfit to inherit the Iron Throne," Lord Stark admits after a moment.

_Kin_slaying. Cersei has enough self-control not to sag in relief, but only just. And even that much only holds for as long as it takes for her to register the full meaning of the accusation. To understand.

Against her will, Cersei feels her eyes widen as the realization hits.

[It never really made sense, did it, how easily the jail-breakers got past the Kingsguard and all the way up into Robert’s private chambers without the guilty party being found. How someone had arranged for the jailbreak to happen without leaving any traces, not even a payed off guard or two. How Joffrey had distanced himself afterwards, pulling further and further away from her, refusing to discuss Robert, Jaime or Elyanna.

She’d thought it had been grief at first and later the secret of Elyanna’s survival.

How could she have been so stupid? How had she not seen this coming?]

Perhaps the worst part is that Ned Stark may be too damn and not enough honorable for his own good, but he’s no fool and he reads the understanding in her expression just as easily as she reads the horrified disbelief in his.

"How _dare_ that traitorous craven!" she manages to spit out with fast-growing fury. "Joffrey would never commit such a foul crime!" But she can’t quite bring herself to believe those words even as she says them, and a lie is only as convincing as the belief you put into it.

[Oh, Joffrey, _what have you done_?]

* * *

{ _King’s Landing_ }

"I admit, Lord Stark, I did not expect you to visit my humble abode," Petyr Baelish greets Ned with a too friendly smile inside the questionable privacy of his personal study in one of his more renown brothels — which is many things, _humble_ not among them.

"That makes two of us," Ned counters drily. "You seem remarkable calm, considering the Small Council lost two members in short order and Stannis Baratheon has all but declared war against Prince Joffrey."

Baelish raises his eyebrows as though surprised. "My apologies, Lord Stark, but you’ll understand that I cannot discuss Small Council business with you. I serve Prince Joffrey faithfully, long may he reign, and I cannot in good conscience discuss anything with an outsider."

"Your loyalty to the prince is commendable." Ned hopes he manages to sound sincere, instead of sarcastic. It’s not secret that Baelish’s loyalty is first and foremost to himself. "But worry not, I’m not here to speak to you about Small Council business."

If you can still call it a Small Council, what with only Baelish, Varys and the Grandmaester who poisoned Princess Elyanna on it.

"Oh? Than what are you here to speak about, if I may ask, Lord Stark?"

That is the question, isn’t it? Ned doesn’t like that he’s here, but Varys seems to have become all but invisible lately and after his last disastrous conversation with Cersei Lannister, Ned isn’t willing to seek the King Mother out again until he has a much better grasp on the current situation. Not to mention that he’s running out of time — Joffrey’s coronation is little more than a moon-turn away and so is his marriage to Sansa.

[There’s a voice in the back of Ned’s head that he’s trying to ignore, but that only grows louder and more insistent with every passing hour. Because. <strike>He has already lost two siblings and a father to a king mad enough to burn his people alive.</strike> <strike>He cannot, will not leave his daughter in the hands of a boy who murdered his own father</strike>. He doesn’t know what the truth is, but he _needs_ to find out.]

"Information."

Baelish blinks. "What kind of information?"

"How big of a threat Stannis Baratheon truly poses to the realm," Ned settles on because it’s the only relevant information he can justify searching for without asking for something that will implicate Joffrey Baratheon. Ned is desperate not stupid — he’s not giving Baelish of all people that type of ammunition against him. Especially not with Cersei Lannister on a warpath.

Baelish tilts his head not unlike one of those birds he’s so fond of. "Stannis has only just declared himself King of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord Stark. What little information I have as of now is hardly worth much of anything, though I am happy to seek out certain… contacts. Provided, of course, you are willing to cover the appropriate fee?"

"Of course." Ned takes care not to let the disgust show on his face, though by the amusement plainly visible on Baelish’s features he’s not succeeding.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Lord Stark. As for what information I do have, most of it is common knowledge, but it is rumored that a Red Witch has grown increasingly influential in Lord Stannis’ circle of advisors. Some of my sources even claim he has converted to the religion of the God of Fire, though I have been unable to verify that claim thus far. He also appears to have called his banners, though at the moment, it is not yet certain how many houses will answer to his call. Lord Stannis is not what one would call a beloved lord after all."

Ned sighs. That’s even less than he’s been hoping for, though admittedly Stannis can’t have begun to move much sooner, not so obviously at least, or someone would’ve gotten suspicious already.

Nevertheless. He eyes Baelish. "I don’t trust you, Lord Baelish," Ned states calmly because it’s the kind of thing that should be said.

"Of course you don’t, Lord Stark." Baelish smiles behind his raised cup. "Due to the fond memories I have of your lovely wife during our shared childhood, I shall tell you this truth for free: You _shouldn’t_ trust me. That’s one less lie than anyone else in this city will tell you." A pause. Then. "And please, call me Littlefinger."

"I thought only your friends call you that."

Baelish’s smile widens. "I consider all people I do business with my friends, Lord Stark."

"I see." Ned really doesn’t. "…Littlefinger."

The title causes Baelish to brighten as though Ned has payed him a huge compliment of some kind — it’s enough to make a man far less suspicious than Ned nervous. But there’s nothing for it, he has need of Baelish’s services, and Catelyn at least has vouched for the man in her last letter. It’ll have to be enough.

With a polite incline of his head towards Baelish, Ned rises from the far too comfortable chair and makes to leave.

"One last thing, Lord Stark," Baelish calls out softly, just as Ned reaches for the door handle. He turns around to look at the man, who’s now regarding him with a seriousness their previous interactions have been lacking. "As your friend, may I give you some free advise? There’s a religious fanatic and a green boy with a little too much Targaryen blood for comfort vying for the throne — and that’s disregarding Viserys Targaryen and his dragons in Essos. Choose the king you wish to support and choose soon, Lord Stark. I’m told none of them have much of a tolerance for treason."

* * *

{ _Dragonstone Island_ }

Harry could say that he feels the weight of the blood magic in the air the moment he steps off the ship onto the Dragonstone island, but that would be a lie. With his channels mostly repaired and the increasing ease with which he feels the magic flow through his veins, Harry feels the pressure, the lecherous greed of yet another powerful ritual site left unattended for far too long before their ship even reaches the port.

It’s calling him, drawing him in. So eager. So _hungry_.

Harry shudders, not quite with disgust, not quite with pleasure. He wonders how the people who live here — a vague memory of another uncle he’d never been as close to as to Jaime flashes through his mind, a cool, but not unkind man with a sick daughter, if he remembers that right — bear the weight of it, how it doesn’t drag them down into the earth and _buries them alive_.

"You alright there, Eli?" Jarren asks quietly, one hand hovering around Harry’s shoulders, not quite touching.

"Just peachy." Harry takes a deep breath. He can taste the salt in the air and though that might just be his imagination acting up, there’s a lingering taste of copper on his tongue that he can’t seem to get rid off, no matter how often he swallows.

During their travel across the sea, Harry hasn’t spent much thought on how he’ll find the ritual site once they’ve reached the island. Which is fortunate because he now knows that it would’ve been a giant waste of time. The magic in the air is so heavy, it makes it hard to pull the air all the way into his lungs. Harry could be blind and deaf and he still would’ve found the way without once second-guessing a single step. Like he’s following an invisible map with another sense, something less tangible than the visible world around him, which mostly consists of sand and barren rock. Honestly, it’s a wonder anyone wants to live here, no matter how valuable from a tactical point the position may be.

"Where are we going?" Jarren murmurs when Harry turns on his heels and confidently walks into a different direction than the merchants they’ve been traveling with, who are aiming for the narrow, twisted pathway that leads up the steep walls of rock right to the entrance of the castle Dragonstone.

It’s an impressive sight, a huge castle built out of stone, shaped like huge dragons. With the grey sky above them and the nebulous clouds twisting like snakes around the higher towers, it makes for an intimidating picture. Not that Harry pays it any mind. He’s too busy focusing on keeping his magic under control, of pulling the restless energy deeper and deeper into himself, beyond the reach of the blood magic that lingers everywhere on this island, but is growing stronger and stronger with every step Harry takes across the otherwise abandoned beach towards the cliffs.

"To the centre," is the only answer Harry can come up with. The only answer that feels _right_.

He’s walking faster now, almost against his will. Its pull is getting stronger — how doesn’t anyone _notice_?

"Eli?" There’s worry in Jarren’s voice.

Even through the thick fog that settles around him, Harry can tell that much. It’s understandable, he probably makes quite a spectacle of himself. But Harry can’t be bothered to respond, to reassure the man, not right now. Besides— If this doesn’t work out, if things go wrong, then it’s already too late.

Harry hasn’t bled yet, but that’s only the last step. As sensitive as he is to magic now, he notices immediately as the energy surrounding him loses more and more of its heavy sluggishness, regains something that isn’t quite awareness, feels more like a sharpening focus, set firmly on him.

It _wants_. It _needs_.

For the first time in what must be years, decades, perhaps even centuries, the blood magic coating every stone Dragonstone has been built on is fully awakening. There’s no turning back now.

* * *

Harry stumbles, barely manages to keep his balance. His limbs feel weird, heavy and too light at the same time, and there’s sand everywhere which is so not helping. Hands try to steady him, but their touch is too cold, too empty, and Harry pushes them away.

"'m fine."

Another deep breath — focus, Harry! — and he blinks his eyes open. Pushes his magic deeper underneath his skin. [_It’s mine and you can’t have it! No one can._] It’s not a longterm solution, but a breath of fresh air that helps him clear the fog in his mind a bit and keep himself upright long enough to reach the cliff.

There’s a spot that from a further distance looked just like moist stone, but up close reveals itself to be a small mouth of a cave, not much bigger than Harry is tall. Behind him, Jarren curses under his breath but sticks close enough to Harry that he can feel the man’s body warmth on his back.

There’s barely any light inside the cave and Harry has to rely on his magic and his hands to guide himself forward through a narrow tunnel that takes a few twists and turns, before the space opens up around him. The cave’s ceiling hangs fairly low and Harry almost walks head first into a particularly impressive stalactite.

It’s too dark to make out much more than shadows, but Harry doesn’t dare to try a Lumos spell. Not with the blood magic so thick in the air, when he licks his lips, he can taste it like a second skin, slowly coiling around him. Besides holding his hands out in front of him until he inevitably runs into a wall works just as well.

The air tastes stale and smells of seaweed, salt and the inescapable tang of copper. Jarren’s breath is too loud and hot against the hypersensitive skin of Harry’s nape, but he pushes those sensations away as best as he can and focuses onto the feel of the cool stone underneath his fingertips. He gently strokes the wall, not unlike an upset horse you’re trying to calm. Feels the ridges under his palms where someone — perhaps many someones — have cared something intothe stone. Runes, letters, signs, whatever they are, they hold magic and spark like lit dynamite under Harry’s every touch. Send an electric shock of energy down his arms, strong enough to make his muscles lock up for a bit.

Yeah. Harry exhales something between a sob and a laugh. He’s exactly where he needs to be.

"My knife?" he murmurs, barely audible even in the heavy silence that rests upon this cave. There’s rustling as Jarren reaches for the dagger he’d insisted on confiscating after having caught Harry carving symbols into the ship deck one too many times and then the familiar handle rests in Harry’s palm.

"Don’t hurt yourself," Jarren says, a bit like a joke, but with an underlying edge that sucks the humor out of it.

Harry smirks, glad that the darkness will cover him. "Not like that isn’t the aim," he could say, but doesn’t. There’s no need to needle the man, Jarren is already far more on edge than is reasonable, given that he isn’t the one about to declare war on a magic older than all the years of both of Harry’s lives put together — not that it makes for an impressive number, but it’s the thought that counts, right? — Harry doesn’t want to make it worse.

He doesn’t need another fight on top of the one he’s about to start.

So he doesn’t bother with a response. Simply cuts his palm, quick, clean, efficient and draws a simple symbol onto the wall as quickly as possible. The moment his bloody palm touches the stone, the magic beneath surges with such vehemence, Harry feels as though he’s literally sucked into the stone. He grits his teeth and ignores the beckoning call, keeps his magic firmly suppressed beneath is skin — or as firmly as possible — and focuses solely on the symbol he’s painting.

[It’s largely just that, a symbolic gesture. What matters is blood and _bloodmagic_**_will _**alone. But the symbol you choose can help guide and focus your magic, so long as it means something to you. So long as it’s personal. So long as it’s something you believe in.

Harry had considered the Sōwilō rune for the longest time. It had been his go-to solution during his short, ill-fated career as an auror, a final but empathetic _fuck you _to Voldemort and his many supporters. But. Harry may carry the lightening bolt scar once more, may identify with it, but he doesn’t believe in it the way he used to.

There’s a part of himself that Harry knows he’s lost. Maybe when he ripped his magic open to save his life when he finally escaped King’s Landing. Maybe back when he was a stupid, clueless child and broke himself apart. Or maybe it goes back even further, maybe he lost that faith in that stupid alley where he bled out like any other criminal he’d ever hunted. Perhaps that’s why he’s chosen this symbol. Another fuck you, just one aimed at a decidedly different target than the one before.

Harry doesn’t know. He’s spent so much time not thinking about it, he isn’t sure yet if he ever will.]

A straight line, caught in a circle, caught in a equilateral triangle.

["_A wand, a stone and a cloak. Together, they make the Deathly Hallows. Together, they make one the Master of Death._"]

The moment the symbol is completed, the world lights up in a blinding light that forces Harry to close his eyes. Underneath his skin, his magic shakes off whatever shackles he’s managed to pull it down with and. What was a steady stream turns into an unstoppable flood that crashes through Harry’s magical channels, floods them clean and pours them open through sheer force, grows stronger and more solid, stacked upon itself like a tsunami steadily approaching the the coast, grows taller and taller, until eventually — _finally_ — it reaches the point where Harry’s bloody palms are pressed against the stone, reaches the exact point where blood and rock and magic meld into one and. [No part of Harry has ever done _submission_ particularly well.]

**Ignites.**

* * *

The world reshapes itself around Harry for he is the very centre of the universe—

**[<strike>You are human, Harry Potter. You will yield to us.</strike>**

**<strike>"You. Owe. Me."</strike>]**

—this world is his to create, his to shape, his to destroy.

_Mine_.

* * *

{ _Elsewhere_ }

When Harry blinks his eyes open and finally makes out something other than stars and blinking lights, only to find himself on a familiar meadow, dark green grass as far as his sight stretches, thick fog hanging in the air and casting the world into hues of grey, the daffodils blooming at his feet the only spot of color his eyes can make out, Harry can’t find it in himself to be surprised. Annoyed, yes, but not surprised.

"You do not belong here," a voice speaks up from behind him, and _really_, Harry thought they’d finally left that stupid show behind them after their last not-quite-confrontation.

Only when he whirls around to make his thoughts on these unnecessary dramatics very clear, the words get caught in his throat. Because it’s not Luna’s familiar appearance he comes face to face with. And it certainly isn’t Dumbledore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying the double-update this weekend, even if this is a mess of a chapter. But I'm really trying to wrap things up in King's Landing because if I allow myself to go into too much detail, this part is gonna take forever [there's just too many characters there that I could follow and I constantly have to remind myself that this is first and foremost a Harry-centric story].  
Anyway, I hope the way things progress [read: spiral out of control] makes sense to you.  
Also regarding Jon Arryn's death, I've long considered where and when it would take place, but that it would happen was always out of question. To me, his death essentially took place independent of the whole Lannister/Baratheon and Stark family situation. Sure, his death was instrumentalized to ignite the conflict between them, but it wasn't the sole motive for the murder and thus this is one of the few pathways where we stick relatively close to canon.  
Any guesses on what'll happen in King's Landing? And whom is Harry facing? [Also we're this close to the two timelines matching up again - the next scene from Harry's POV will connect the events from King's Landing with those from Harry's own journey, but we still have to get through a couple of occurrences on the King's Landing side of things before we reach Harry's present in Dragonstone. I wonder what else can go wrong before our dear main character returns? *ominous music plays in the background*]  
Anyway I wish you a wonderful day and if you have the time, please let me know what you think in a comment!


	31. part xi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elyanna would take note of the way Lord Stark keeps eying him like he’s a monster, about to snap and execute everyone in sight within the first minute of meeting the man. [And oh, Joffrey _wants_.]
> 
> In which Cersei tries to find out the truth, Ned tries to do the right thing, Joffrey tries to make his sister proud and no one gets what they want.

_296 AC_

{_ King’s Landing _}

It’s early. False dawn is only just touching the horizon in, color seeping hesitantly into the sky as though not convinced it should move just yet. Joffrey can sympathize. It’s too early to be awake, even for the tireless spies tucked away in every nook and cranny of the Red Keep.

Joffrey is leaning against a window inside his sleeping chambers, the one that oversees King’s Landing in all its questionable, shadowed glory. In half an hour or less, the sea stretched out endlessly behind the city’s harbor will begin to glitter and sparkle in the morning sun like the most precious of jewels from the Royal treasury.

Not that there are many of those left, as Joffrey unfortunately knows all too well. Not a single meeting with the Small Council or his personal advisors has passed without Lord Arryn commenting on the sorry state of the Crown’s finances. Another of Robert Baratheon’s many failings that Joffrey now has to bear the weight of. [If he didn’t know better, he’d swear the man was spiting him from the grave.]

Not for the first time, Joffrey wishes Elyanna hadn’t been forced to leave. Wishes she wasn’t unable to inherit the Iron Throne before him, for that matter. There’s _so many_ of his duties he’d gladly hand over to his sister and if that means giving up his right to sit on the ugly — if admittedly impressive — throne, well. Joffrey is self-aware enough to know he doesn’t like the thought of giving that privilege up. Doesn’t like not being the most powerful person in the room. But if it had to be anyone else he’d have to endure on the Throne that _should’ve been his by right of birth_, it would be Elyanna.

Alas, Elyanna clearly had more important things to do. After all, traitorous orders and populous cities don’t decimate themselves — and really _how_ is she known as the more reasonable one out of the two of them? — which leaves Joffrey stuck pretending he cares about the petty, meaningless problems of his many subordinates. Unfortunately, those subordinates are fewer in number than they used to be just a couple of days ago, and even though Joffrey probably shouldn’t give a damn the thought doesn’t sit right with him.

Is the main reason why Joffrey is standing here, shoulder pressed against the rough stone, waiting for the sun to rise. Because not even a soon-to-be-king gets to work through five nights in a row, apparently. For a living, breathing horror story, the Hound had made his position on Joffrey’s actions more than clear. Said position being that his _self-destructive princely drama _would not be tolerated a moment longer than it took Clegane to bodily throw him into his private rooms to catch some sleep — _through_ the door if necessary.

Granted, the man may have a point. [Which is the only reason Joffrey hasn’t executed yet. Clegane is one of the few people who are loyal to him _and_ not afraid of telling him when he’s being an idiot. With Elyanna gone, Joffrey has no choice but to trust the Hound’s judgement — within reason of course.]

Unfortunately, all but throwing him out of his study has done little to quell the restless energy bubbling under Joffrey’s skin. Sleep continues to remain a stranger he barely recognizes in the hallways. Lying in bed and staring blankly at the ceiling, feeling his heart race underneath his skin for all that Joffrey’s forcing his breath to remain even, doesn’t help. Hence his getting out of bed the moment twilight might conceivably make its first appearance of the day, even if he’ll have to wait at least two more hours before he can leave his chambers without having the Hound send him straight back.

It’s been five days since Joffrey’s had a proper night’s sleep. Five days since Stannis Baratheon’s trice damned letter arrived.

Joffrey breathes, slow and careful. There’s no point in panicking, in agonizing about things that he can’t change and yet.

The last thing Elyanna asked of him before she left was to hold down the fort. To keep the Kingdom standing, take care of their family and their home. So Elyanna would have something to return to. His sister _trusted_ Joffrey with this task, the most important task she could have handed him. But—

It’s been over two moon-turns since Joffrey has last seen his sister. Weeks since he’s received word of her. And it scares Joffrey, makes his heart feel heavy and hard, like it’s been exchanged with a clump of clay in a busy moment while he wasn’t paying attention because half the time Joffrey is glad. Relieved Elyanna hasn’t been in touch recently. Grateful and so damn terrified because sooner or later Elyanna will return.

[She _promised_. There is no way, no how Elyanna will ever break a promise to him.]

Elyanna will return and she’ll see the mess he’s made of things. See the way the nobles spin their little webs around him in their tiring games to raise their own profits. [Joffrey should keep an eye on those games, should push and cut them back every time they grow too greedy, too far out of control, but he doesn’t care about their stupid pretentions and the next time one of them steps too far out of line, the message Joffrey sends will be written in _blood_.]

Hear the whispers the Faith has been spreading, when they think Joffrey isn’t around to listen. [Ever since he’s first approached the High Septon about magic, about rituals lost to time and the memory of men, they’ve been watching him. They think themselves so clever, but Joffrey knew how to lie before Elyanna taught him the value of truth, and he hasn’t missed the man’s nerves, the growing mistrust, when he kept coming back. Kept asking questions about an old art the Faith condemns, searching for ancient books and even older scrolls they prefer the world would forget. <strike>_The will of the Seven is not for us to question_, they murmur, _but Oldtown did not set itself aflame_</strike>. Their words itch, their suspicious glances burn, and Joffrey wonders if maybe it wouldn’t be worth setting their precious Great Sept aflame before their eyes. That way at least they would have something to be suspicious about.]

Elyanna would take one look at things and would immediately realize that Joffrey has failed to unite the Small Council.

[Littlefinger and Varys are caught up in a race to extend their own influence further than the other, a neat little game of _I know that you know that I know that you know_ and neither of them are loyal to him. Pycelle looks at him like Joffrey has destroyed his entire world when he doesn’t think Joffrey’s paying attention. Arryn is dead and Stannis has betrayed him. Renly hasn’t set foot into King’s Landing since Oldtown burned, having coordinated the relief efforts with House Tyrell, but now that his brother has declared for the throne, Joffrey doesn’t think he’ll be back any time soon. Renly isn’t traitorous by nature but between his estranged brother and his estranged nephew, Joffrey doesn’t know whose side he’ll choose.]

Elyanna would take note of the way Lord Stark keeps eying him like he’s a monster, about to snap and execute everyone in sight within the first minute of meeting the man. [And oh, Joffrey _wants_.]

His reign is coming apart at the seams and Joffrey hasn’t even been officially crowned yet. [And that serves him right, doesn’t it? How could he have expected anything less, when his reign began with his not-father’s blood on his hand— No. He earned this. Besides isn’t that how Robert Baratheon got the throne? By killing the rightful heir and _taking it_?]

Joffrey balls his hands into fists.

There’s too many warring fractions in King’s Landing right now. And while that by itself is nothing new, usually they aren’t quite so united in their hatred for the crown. The bearer of the crown, that is. Stannis’ declaration — offering an _alternative_ to the scheming assholes claiming to be his most loyal advisors— couldn’t have come at a worse time, no matter how little love is lost between his supposed uncle and the rest of the council.

Perhaps the worst part — the thing that keeps digging deeper into all of Joffrey’s soft parts that are already vulnerable and aching — is the offer Stannis included in his letter. To forfeit the crown and take the black, leave Stannis to rule Westeros and his family save from a war the realm cannot afford.

_In honor of their shared blood_.

Joffrey doesn’t snort, but the derision he felt the first time he read that cursed letter hasn’t abated in the slightest. Stannis might not know it, but there is no blood tying them together. And Joffrey—

He wants to say the offer isn’t too bad. In comparison to what fate has awaited other king slayers — those who didn’t have Tywin Lannister shielding them from the consequences — it wouldn’t be. His sisters and his mother would be save, Stannis has sworn and he is a man of his word. He wouldn’t offer an oath he doesn’t intend to uphold. But here’s the thing: Joffrey doesn’t want to take it. He doesn’t want to be branded a criminal, doesn’t want to be shackled to that stupid wall and get killed by some worthless traitor or rapist for breathing too loud.

[_A good king will make sacrifices for the Greater Good_, Elyanna had told him once, although the curve of her lips had told Joffrey loud and clear his sister didn’t approve of the sentiment.

And maybe she was right or maybe she wasn’t. The truth is, Joffrey has never been as good a person as Elyanna believes him to be.]

Joffrey will be crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms within four week’s time. He’ll have to make his choice until that day, for that is all the time Stannis has given him to reconsider before he’ll officially move against the crown. And even though Joffrey would like to pretend otherwise, to weigh the odds and scheme and plot, he knows himself well. He made his choice the moment he burned Stannis’ letter. [The moment he kept quiet about the offer it entailed.]

Absently, Joffrey twists the king’s sigil ring around his thumb. It’s still too big for him, but.

He’s planning to grow into it.

[The throne is stupid, full of responsibilities he doesn’t want and surrounded by backstabbers he doesn’t care for, but it’s _his_. If the realm can’t afford a war, well, too bad for the realm because Joffrey will fight tooth and nail to keep what he considers his own. <strike>And it’s not like anyone expects him to send his sisters to the front lines</strike>.]

*

The day hasn’t shaped up to be a good one even before his mother stormed into his private study and slammed the door shut behind her. That he can could hear her raised voice arguing with his guards minutes before she stalks inside the room in a vengeful fury does little to improve Joffrey’s mood. Where’s that bloody composure Mother always lectures him on? They hardly need to give the servants more to talk about than they already do.

"Joffrey." Mother doesn’t shout. Joffrey can probably count the number of times she has truly screamed at him on a single hand. But there’s no mistaking the fury boiling underneath the thin mask of civility.

It’s probably a bad sign that Joffrey has already lost any and all interest in this argument they haven’t even started yet.

"Mother. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" Joffrey takes care to keep his features blank. He has no idea what has gotten into his mother and he honestly doesn’t want to know. It’ll undoubtedly turn out to be another problem she’ll expect him to deal with and Joffrey has already used up the last shred of patience during the Small Council meeting this morning.

[Can you behead someone for sheer incompetence? Because it’s becoming a more tempting option the longer Joffrey considers it.]

Mother sinks into the visitor chair with her usual grace and if it wasn’t for the way she keeps her gaze fixed on him, tracking his every expression, Joffrey might have been fooled by the illusion of calm disinterest she upholds.

"I just had a interesting conversation with Lord Stark." The words are perfectly pleasant. Mother’s hands are folded demurely in her lap, but her courteous smile does nothing to hide the teeth beneath. Not that Joffrey would’ve fallen for that. His mother hasn’t been demure a day in her life.

"Is that so." Joffrey tries for a light tone and carefully doesn’t wince. _Wonderful_.

Ned Stark hasn’t been in the city for more than a moon turn and is already causing problems everywhere he goes. Is it too late to back out of that stupid betrothal now and send the whole aggravating family back to the North? Joffrey is willing to bet they would all be happier with that outcome. _He_ certainly would be.

Mother hums. "He had the most fascinating story to share. Just silly rumors of course, else my son would doubtlessly have seen it fit to inform me himself." The words are sweet enough to raise the hairs on the back of Joffrey’s neck.

Luckily he’s danced to this particular music before. Their estrangement these last few moons had to be good for _something_. Unluckily Joffrey is not in the mood. He really can’t stress that enough. He already plays games of pretend in every other meeting he has. With the sole exceptions of the Hound, Myrcella and Gwyneth, Joffrey can’t afford to speak his mind and he’s tired of it. Tired of treating his own mother like an enemy. Besides he’s played this particular hand before, has dared the man he thought to be his father to act against him. It is fitting perhaps that his true mother shall receive the same chance.

Perhaps she’ll make better use of it. And if not, at least he’ll _know_.

Besides if his mother seeks an honest conversation, who is her dutiful son to deny her?

"I doubt you would have sought me out because of a silly rumor, Mother." Joffrey allows his lips to quirk up into a half-amused smirk. "You’re not a woman prone to overreaction."

Unless one of her children is threatened, but that goes without saying.

Cersei raises one delicate eyebrow. "Even spoken in jest, the threat of imminent war is not to be taken lightly."

_So this is about Stannis_. Joffrey suppresses the urge to sigh. "Stannis Baratheon has proven disloyal to the crown, that much is true. He has resigned from his position on the Small Council and declared himself the rightful heir to the Iron Throne." And no matter how often he says or hears those words, Joffrey doubts they’ll ever stop burning. "But he has not yet officially declared war against the crown." _Though it’s only a matter of time_. "I therefore saw no reason to inform you of this unfortunate development ahead of my most trusted advisors, Mother. There are steps that needed to be taken in response that could not wait because of good manners and personal feelings."

Mother inclines her head. Good. She can hardly blame him for putting _her_ lessons to use. "And now? What will you tell me now?"

Joffrey meets her burning gaze. She must have run straight towards him after whatever has set her off — strands of hair have escaped her intricate braid and are curling around her face and her hands clench around the armrest of the chair.

Yes. It is definitely the time to have this conversation.

"What do you want to know?"

Mother pauses as though she’d geared up for another long, pointless argument. Joffrey ignores the pang that observation sends through him with the ease of long practice. Elyanna wouldn’t like to see them like this, just like she’d hated watching their parents’ arguments, but Elyanna can make her opinions known when she’s back by his side where she belongs.

"Where is your sister?" His mother asks after a long moment, cool and collected, but soft, her voice pitched not to carry.

Joffrey laughs. He can’t help it. He’d been _so sure_ Mother would ask about Stannis’ accusation — the same accusation he sees in Ned Stark’s eyes every time the lord turns in his direction — that the question catches him off-guard in a way it shouldn’t have. Mother cares more about them than about their actions and though a large part of Joffrey draws satisfaction from that security, a smaller voice wonders. [Does she not ask because she fears the answer or because she doesn’t care which it is?]

"I don’t know." He bites back a comment of how he’s not sure where souls wander upon their body’s demise, but only just. Judging from the way his mother’s eyes narrow and the grip of her hands tightens, it’s a smart decision.

"Don’t lie to me, Joffrey."

"I’m not lying." Joffrey leans back in his chair, drums his fingers against the surface of the table. "I don’t need to."

He hasn’t heard from Elyanna since her short missive back when Oldtown was still standing.

"Joffrey—" Mother’s voice breaks in a way that’s so unlike her it startles him when — again — it shouldn’t have.

Joffrey has not forgotten his mother’s screams when they found Elyanna’s chambers destroyed and covered in blood. Back then, upholding the lie was necessary to ensure his sister’s safety and Joffrey doesn’t regret it. But he’s intimately aware that of all his occasionally questionable choices, this is the one his mother may never forgive him for.

That’s quite alright though. [He hasn’t forgiven her either. Might not ever forgive her for damning him the way she did before he was ever born.]

Still. Joffrey misses Elyanna every day, every hour of his life and his mother’s pain doesn’t deserve to be so easily dismissed.

"But wherever she is, I am certain she is safe."

His mother straightens and though the anger is plain to read in her face, there is also relief mixed in there. More than Joffrey is comfortable admitting to. Predictably, anger wins out in the end.

"_Lie_." Cersei rasps. "She is safest with her family _where she belongs_."

Perhaps the worst part, the part that makes Joffrey’s frayed nerves snap with a distinct '_cling_' is that he desperately wants to agree. He wants to and he knows he can’t — "_I’m being poisoned_." — and he _hates_ it.

"You can’t honestly believe that." Joffrey hisses darkly. "Elyanna hasn’t been safe a day in her life. This city is poison and even she couldn’t hold out forever."

"Do you have so little faith in your sister?" Cersei asks and has the gall to sound disappointed.

Anger flashes through him, bright and intense, and Joffrey doesn’t remember getting to his feet, doesn’t remember hearing his seat hitting the ground behind him. He’s heaving with the force of his rage, holding on to his desk with both hands, lest he throw himself over it because _how dare she_.

"I have _every_ faith in Elyanna! There is _nothing_ and _no one_ in whom I believe more. Which is simply astonishing when one considers that you went behind my back and proved beyond doubt that my own blood can’t be trusted. Or did you think I wouldn’t find out that you’ve sent for the Starks’ behind my back? Uncle Tyrion is good at moving unseen, but even he is not invisible."

"You hid your sister away." Mother’s expression might as well have been carved in stone for all the emotion it conveys. "I had no choice."

"No choice but to drag the Starks of all families here?" Joffrey mocks.

"I had my reasons."

"_So did I_."

Slowly Cersei rises from her seat as well. "Nothing could justify taking my daughter away from me."

Her voice has softened but that only reveals the cold steel resting underneath. Unfortunately, Joffrey has been raised by Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister and if there’s one thing he’s learned from them both it’s not to bend. "She wasn’t safe," he repeats. Just as quietly. Just as uncompromising.

"We could have protected her._ I_ could have protected her!"

"You already tried and you _failed_!" he snarls and of all his accusations, this is the one that makes his mother flinch. That more than anything else breaks through the haze of red anger that’s threatened to swallow him whole and make him think. He’s revealing too much, losing control of himself the way he just did. That’s unacceptable.

"This conversation is over."

"You can’t just—"

"I am _King_." Joffrey snaps out. Flashes the sigil ring on his thumb. "This conversation is over. We will continue it another day when both our tempers have calmed. Now if you will excuse me, the day isn’t getting any longer and I have much to do."

His mother leaves, but the anger she’s awoken is not so easily dismissed.

*

"Your Grace, if I could have a moment of your time?"

"Lord Baelish." Joffrey wishes he could rub his temples to stave off the headache he feels building there, but he can’t afford to in front of this man he doesn’t trust. Not that it would help anyway. "What an unexpected pleasure."

Baelish, of course, takes his dry words as the invitation they aren’t meant to be and sinks into the visitor chair with the self-assured air of someone well-aware of his own importance. Joffrey wants to throw him into the dungeons just for that, but that might just be his currently rather short fuse talking.

"What seems to be the issue, Lord Baelish?" he asks after signing off on the finally agreed upon agreement with the Tyrells regarding the fate of Oldtown. The rebuilding will wait until after the coming winter, whereupon the crown will carry 25 percent of the cost. In return, the trade agreements with the Reach have been renewed with an added two or so clauses in favor of the crown. Both sides feel like they’ve won something and everybody is happy. Except the people of Oldtown, who are mostly just dead. "And make it short please. There’s much to do still and little time to get it done."

"The burden of ruling," Baelish agrees with a knowing nod. "In that case, I will get straight to the point, your Grace. I have concerning news regarding Lord Stark and while your father has always placed his utmost trust in the Paramount of the North, I’m afraid I would be remiss in my duties as advisor to the true king if I were to keep this information to myself."

*

"Lord Stark," Joffrey greets the man who has asked him for a private audience with one part weariness, two parts annoyance. "Please take a seat."

He doesn’t know why everyone and his mother feel the need to bother him today, but it’s getting on his nerves and sooner rather than later someone is going to suffer for it. Someone other than him.

King’s Landing doesn’t become Ned Stark, that much is clear. He appears to have aged years in the few weeks he’s spent here. Though part of that may be the lack of sleep as indicated by the purple shadows under his eyes. Joffrey sympathizes. He simply would sympathize more if Ned Stark weren’t responsible for fair share of his own problems.

"My prince." Lord Stark inclines his head. "Thank you for your time."

_My_ _prince_. It’s Joffrey’s title until he claims the Iron Throne during the official coronation. Facts aside that hasn’t stopped people from addressing him as 'your Grace' since before Robert Baratheon had been properly buried. That’s what makes it a statement — an intentional one.

Joffrey may not like Baelish, may trust him even less, but he’s not forgotten the man’s word and it’s becoming clearer by the moment that in this, at least, the self-made lord has told the truth.

"Yes, well, let’s not waste too much of it on being polite." Joffrey smiles without smiling at all. "What is it you want, Lord Stark?"

The man is quiet for a long moment, his gaze resting heavily on Joffrey’s shoulders. "May I speak plainly?"

_Well, that can only be a good sign_, Elyanna chirps drily in the back of Joffrey’s mind. As per usual his sister is not wrong.

"Of course." It doesn’t really matter anyway, not here, inside his private study, away from the prying eyes of the court. And in all honesty, Joffrey prefers hearing the man tell him to his face what he thinks of him, rather than being stabbed in the back at the most opportune moment the way 90 per cent of the Red Keep’s inhabitants are prone to do. Perhaps honor has its use after all.

Eddard Stark exhales, but after another moment of contemplation he finally seems to find his resolve. "Robert was my friend for most of my life," the man begins. "More than that, he was my brother in all but blood and for all his faults, I loved him dearly."

Wonderful. Just fucking wonderful. It just figures that even his own mother hasn’t dared to breach the topic of Robert Baratheon’s death with him, yet Lord Stark of all people confronts him head on. Joffrey doesn’t know if he should be impressed by the man’s guts or horrified by his stupidity. After all, what could the man possibly gain from approaching him in this way?

"I have heard many things since my arrival in King’s Landing," Eddard Stark continues as though unaware of the turn Joffrey’s thoughts have taken. "And though I do not pretend to approve of everything I’ve seen and heard, if nothing else the man I remember, the man I fought side by side with deserves to know the truth. As Robert is no longer with us, I will fulfill my duty to you in his stead."

_Not because I am your king and owed your loyalty?_ Joffrey almost asks and only bites back with a great deal of self-restraint. They are walking on a dangerous enough path as it is. _Just what is your play here, Lord Stark?_

"I see. And what is this truth you allude to?" he asks when it becomes clear that Eddard Stark won’t continue without prompting. Why do people have to be so tiresome?

"It concerns your eldest sister Elyanna Baratheon."

Those simple words change _everything_. Joffrey straightens in his seat involuntary, completely focused. This isn’t a confrontation about the rumors Stannis Baratheon has spread or even about the Iron Throne at all and Joffrey doesn’t like that. It’s the second time on this day that a mention of his sister has caught him off-guard, but with Mother it was understandable to a certain extend. Eddard Stark on the other hand has never even met Elyanna and has absolutely no business speaking her name.

"Elyanna is none of your concern, Lord Stark," Joffrey interrupts. Too sharp to feign casualness, but that’s a lost cause anyway.

"I apologize for raising painful memories, my prince. But there are things regarding your sister’s fate that you need to be aware of." It’s not so much the words as the strength behind them that convinces Joffrey that Eddard Stark will not be dissuaded from this topic. Something that Joffrey can’t let stand, can’t allow because—

["It’s curious, your Grace, how many inquiries the Faith has received lately in regard to the supposed magics of old."

Joffrey stills. Turns back around. "'Many inquires'? Who besides myself has asked you to look into it?"

"Oh. Forgive me, your Grace, I did not mean to imply— Of course we are grateful to be of service to Crown! And I would not say 'many’ requests, as such, I must have misspoken." The High Septon hesitates.

Joffrey’s glare intensifies.

"I assumed your own research had sparked the interest among the lords, your Grace. Lord Arryn has visited the old archives multiple times and most recently Lord Stark has also sought them out. Of course we have always taken care to answer your questions first and foremost, your Grace."

"I see."]

The Faith is already restless. The last thing they need is the return of a long despised enemy to aim their anger at — least of all when that enemy is _his sister_.

"This topic of discussion is closed, Lord Stark. I urge you to drop it _now_." This morning, when his mother confronted him, Joffrey’s anger burned hot and bright. It has hence cooled, but not lost any of its intensity. If anything, time has sharpened it further.

"Whatever crime the Order of Maesters—"

"There is no Order of Maesters, Lord Stark." Joffrey makes no move to hide his own satisfaction. If common sense won’t make Eddard Stark _shut up_, perhaps fear will do the trick. "Their heart burned at Oldtown and those few that remain have scattered like rats."

Lord Stark rears back like Joffrey has punched him. Like he’s _surprised_. "Elyanna Baratheon deserves justice, not to have her name sullied by atrocities committed in her name."

The words are said quietly, tonelessly, like a thought that slips past the man’s guard thoughtlessly. They continue right past Joffrey’s own guard as well and touch on something that had best remain unacknowledged.

_You have no idea what kind of atrocities I’d commit in Elyanna’s name_.

And maybe it’s the stress, the sleepless nights and heavy decisions that have been weighing on him, maybe it’s the rumors and fearful glances he hasn’t earned, maybe it’s the thought that another order might hunt Elyanna down when she has barely survived the last one and how much Eddard Stark is endangering her _without even trying_. Maybe it’s this man, renown for his honor, yet so determined to see the worst in him. Maybe it’s none of those things.

[Maybe Joffrey has never been as taken by peaceful resolutions and maybe he’s tired of being _good_ and _kind_ and _manageable_.

Elyanna has trusted him to hold the throne, the city, their home and by the Old Gods and the New, Joffrey will.]

But the cord that Joffrey’s been using to hold himself back, the line he’s oriented himself on, the one that’s always been more self-control than conscience _fraystears_—_ s n a p s_.

This will be dealt with here and now, one way or the other.

"_You dare_." Joffrey growls from deep within his belly where his anger resides, cold and ready and burning. "You of all people dare to come here as my guest, to look me in the eyes and speak of truth and justice, while behind my back you are conspiring with my traitorous uncle who has decided to forsake family in favor of a throne my father earned with blood and sacrifice."

"Yes." Joffrey allows the smirk on his lips to twist at Eddard Stark’s startled motion. "Nothing in this keep happens without my knowledge. Not even your correspondence with Stannis. You overstep, Lord Stark. However," here, Joffrey sighs deeply as though the mere thought causes him pain, "as my betrothed’s father, you are afforded certain liberties. As such, I am willing to overlook your actions, so long as you apologize and give me your word here and now that you let my sister rest in peace. Drop whatever investigations you’ve conducted, never speak a word of whatever it is you believe you have found again and bend the knee to me as the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Then and only then will I forget this conversation and all your previous slights ever occurred."

Joffrey holds Eddard Stark’s gaze, for all intents and purposes completely calm. _There is nothing wrong with an ultimatum, so long as you get to dictate the terms_, Elyanna chimes in from one half-forgotten memory, which helps Joffrey to keep a hint of a smirk on his face. Just enough to betray calm, certainty and an edge of amusement — exactly nothing of the raging storm within.

His words leave a ringing silence in their wake that thickens with every passing moment. Joffrey genuinely isn’t sure what choice the man will make, not at first. For all that he is honest, Eddard Stark is a hard man to predict or this conversation would never have happened at all. Then he straightens his shoulders, lifts his chin and there is a challenge in the man’s grey eyes that Joffrey cannot leave unanswered.

"I cannot give an oath I am not willing to uphold, my prince."

"Ah, the infamous honor of the Starks." Joffrey allows his smirk to widen into a smile full of teeth. "I must confess I was hoping you would say that." Then he raises his voice towards the door. "Guards! Arrest Lord Stark for conspiring against the crown with a known traitor. As my intended’s sire, he is to remain in his guest quarters under guard at all times and is forbidden from meeting anyone I have not personally approved of."

"As for you, Lord Stark." Joffrey turns towards the man again. "You will receive a full trial in two weeks time where you will have ample opportunity to tell the whole truth as you know it that you are so eager to share. That or accept the offer I have made you. Choose your fate wisely, Lord Stark, unless you trust the gods to choose well for you."

It’s only after Eddard Stark has been led away by loyal Lannister guards, after Joffrey has fended off what is sure to be only the first wave of protest from Stark’s men, after he has sent the Hound away and closed the door behind everyone, that he allows himself to fold his arms over each other and bury his head in them.

There’s no way around it now. Unless the man miraculously changes his mind, which none of that damn family are known for, he’ll have to kill Eddard Stark. Elyanna will not be pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ned: There should be a trial. It’s only right.  
Joffrey, twitching at the combination of 'right' and 'Stark': fINE you want a trial? YOU SHALL HAVE A TRIAL  
Elyanna, facepalming in the background: So close, bro. So close and yet so far.
> 
> So, that happened. Oops?
> 
> Alright, let me start by wishing all of you who celebrate it MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! and all of you who don't a WONDERFUL WEEKEND!!! I hope you're all safe and healthy and take this time to do something nice for yourself!
> 
> This chapter might finish on a cruel note, but I hope the escalation doesn't come too much out of the blue. Joffrey's been sorta-declining [wrong word, but I can't think of a more fitting one right now] for a while and it's starting to show. He's under a lot of pressure and everyone around him isn't helping. At all. Also the whole conversation with Ned is full of misunderstandings but I feel like it kinda echoes canon nicely? Because Ned gets a similar choice here, only this time he refuses not just because he wants justice for his dead friend's daughter but also because he believes Joffrey just confirmed to his face that he's massacred Oldtown and I just don't see that going down well with Ned at all. Plus there's still Stannis' accusation... Btw this is the chapter where it's starting to show why this fic earned the "Protective Joffrey Should Be It's Own Warning" tag. 
> 
> Anyway if you have the time I'd love to hear your thoughts in a comment! Next chapter we're back with Elyanna at the ritual site. Until then, take care, everyone!


End file.
